Ulterior Motive
by NeonicPoizon
Summary: SEQUEL TO SURVIVING DESECRATION- Things get confusing, and relationships take surprising turns. Meanwhile, Moriarty is still on the loose. Sherlock thinks that the the threat is unambiguous, but the consulting criminal's plans stretch much further than he ever could have imagined. Turns out Sherlock isn't the only Holmes in danger.
1. The Chase

**Warning: The following has situations that may not be suitable for those under the age of 18. It is highly recommended that anyone with traumatic past experiences takes caution when reading. The following contains very sensitive material**.

* * *

John turned into an alley and broke into a sprint, running down the length of clammy darkness until he made his way onto another street. He took a right turn and ran down the street until meeting with an intersection. He stopped, glanced back to see if he was still being followed, and then- after realizing that he had finally managed to lose the man who had been chasing him- he bent over and grabbed his knees, panting.

He'd barely had time to catch his breath before his pursuer rounded the corner and found him again.

"Found him!"

John sprang up. He turned and started running again, cursing inwardly as his knees began to feel weak. He was exhausted; his legs threatening to collapse underneath him.

"C'mon," He said to himself. He grabbed his side and glanced back again. His insides were cramping. His lungs felt like they were on fire, and every breath he took made his throat burn.

"_C'mon_," He reiterated, encouraging himself to keep running. He didn't know what would happen to him if he was caught, but he knew that whoever was chasing him had been hired by Moriarty. As long as it had to do with that sick bastard, John wanted absolutely no part in it.

The doctor took a sharp turn into another alley and slipped on a patch of ice, falling sideways into the brick of the building next to him. He struggled to stand up, and then he started running again. Suddenly, someone appeared at the end of the alley. John stopped mid-stride and spun around. He started running back the way that he had came, but the man who had been chasing him was already at the other end.

"Shit."

John looked at the tall, thin man who had suddenly appeared, and then over at the short bald man who had been chasing him. He then realized that he was trapped between them.

"Oh, you've got to be..." John muttered to himself. He anxiously looked around for an exit; some way out. A door, a ladder, anything...

Unfortunately, it didn't seem like there was one.

"There _has_ to be," John said to himself, "C'mon, think."

He stood there for a moment, glancing in either direction. Neither of the men moved. They just stood at either end of the alley, patiently waiting for him to give in and go with them.

"Come on, Doctor Watson. We don't want to hurt you."

John looked over at the taller man and glared.

"Sure you don't," He sarcastically replied.

_Just think. What would Sherlock do?_

John kept looking around for some form of escape, but it really seemed as if he had finally lost. The alley was a short stretch of pavement, clear of any doors or windows. There were no ladders or pipes on either of the buildings. There were no manholes.

_Think_.

Both men began to make their way towards him. John could feel his heart rate increase.

**_Think._**

He nervously glanced in both directions. The men were getting closer with each passing second. He had nowhere to go. He didn't even have a weapon. How was he going to get out of this?

_Dammit. Where the hell did Sherlock run off to?_

The taller one grabbed for him and he jerked away. He took a few steps back and walked directly into the other man, who made haste to wrap an arm around him and hold him still. Before John had time to react, his captor held a rag over his lips. John gasped, inhaling the chemical being held against his mouth, and he gagged. He tried to wriggle free of the man's grasp, but he suddenly felt very weak. His body gave in, his eyes slipped shut, and he fell unconscious within seconds.


	2. Two Months Earlier

John ran down the stairs and bounded into the living room. Much to his surprise, there was a sleeping Mycroft on the sofa. John gave the man a curious look, but didn't linger. His main focus at the moment was Sherlock.

He quickly turned and began making his way towards Sherlock's bedroom. He opened the bedroom door, scanned the room for any sign of life, and then- upon realizing that Sherlock wasn't in there- he shut the door and began to make his way to the kitchen. It was there that he finally found his irksome flatmate sitting in a chair, observing a container full of some unidentified liquid. Inside of the liquid was a piece of what appeared to be a chunk of metal.

"Where is my doorknob?" John asked, clearly annoyed.

Sherlock looked up at him and raised his brow.

"What?"

"It took me twenty minutes to get my door open, Sherlock! Where is my door knob, and why did you take it?"

"If you don't shut up," Sherlock calmly replied, "You're going to wake Mycroft."

"I don't give a damn! I just want to know where my bloody door knob is!"

Sherlock gave him a stern look and put a finger over his mouth, gesturing for John to be quiet. John just glared at him, becoming increasingly impatient as his flat mate failed to provide him with the information that he had requested.

"I much prefer a sleeping brother to an annoyingly conscious one," Sherlock said.

"Sherlock..." John growled.

"It's right here," Sherlock replied, pointing to the chunk of metal soaking in liquid before him. John swallowed hard, closed his eyes, balled his hands into fists, and then took a deep breath and relaxed. He opened his eyes again, and found that Sherlock was studying him very carefully.

"You... _melted_ my doorknob," John replied.

"I did..."

"Why did you...?" John trailed off. He covered his face with a hand and let out an exasperated sigh.

"I was bored, and the urge to smoke was overwhelming, so I was in desperate need of something to distract me. I wanted to see how long it would take for the metal to melt when submersed in-"

"I don't care," John barked. He stared at Sherlock, and Sherlock stared at him. The two of them locked gazes for a moment, and then John diverted his gaze and awkwardly shifted his weight.

"Why is Mycroft asleep on the sofa?" He asked.

"He insisted," Sherlock replied. The consulting detective turned his attention back to the experiment in front of him, prodding the melted doorknob with a pencil.

"He _insisted_?"

"Yes. Apparently, there's been a breach in his security, and he thought it best for him to stay here."

"Ah. So... He slept here?"

"Yes."

"When did he-"

"Not long after you went to bed. We discussed a few things, he dozed off on the sofa."

John nodded, and then turned and made his way over to the refrigerator. He opened the refrigerator door and grabbed a carton of milk, retrieving a glass from the cupboard.

"He's asked for me to assist him in some personal matters," Sherlock said as John poured himself a glass of milk, "He and I may be gone for a few days."

John turned around and looked at Sherlock, furrowing his brow.

"You and him?" He asked.

"Yes..."

"I take it I'm not invited to tag along?"

Sherlock poked the melting door knob with a pencil again.

"Personal matters," Sherlock muttered.

"Oh?" Said John, "_Personal_? Sorry, didn't know that meant you had to exclude your only friend."

Sherlock smirked, rolling his eyes. He looked up to find John staring at him. The shorter man looked offended.

"Mycroft _insisted_ that it be just the two of us who are involved," Sherlock replied.

"Oh. Right. Well, I'm sure he has his reasons."

John turned around and reached up, opening the cupboard. He pulled out a bagged loaf of bread. Sherlock's chair squealed against the hardwood floor as Sherlock pulled his chair out and stood up, then the sound of footsteps approached John. The doctor had no time to react before his flat mate embraced him in a more than friendly hug, planting a kiss on his stubbled jaw. Sherlock then rested his head on the shorter man's shoulder, smiling like a fool.

"Could we not-"

Sherlock blew into his ear, and he reflexively jerked his head away.

"Could we _not_ do this while your brother is here?" John asked.

He looked over to find Sherlock staring at him through a pair of thick safety glasses. Sherlock kissed him again, this time directly on the lips.

"Quit," John chuckled. Sherlock nipped at his neck.

"Quit it!" John quietly exclaimed. He pushed Sherlock away with his elbow, and Sherlock grabbed him by the arm. He spun him around and grabbed him by the hips, then he planted another firm kiss on his mouth. When he pulled away from John, he just stared at him, smiling mischievously. John's cheeks reddened.

"What?" Sherlock asked, "Afraid he might catch us?"

John smiled, but his amusement slowly faded. He furrowed his brow and stared at Sherlock silently, studying him carefully. It was clear that he had something on his mind, but Sherlock couldn't tell what. He hated it when he couldn't tell what someone was thinking.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm not sure," John replied.

"I don't understand."

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't understand?"

"Shut up."

They both laughed, and then found themselves in another silent stalemate. After a solid five minutes of staring intensely at each other, Sherlock broke the silence.

"Yesterday..." Sherlock started, "When you and I were in here, and we..."

"I know," John said.

"You know what?" Sherlock asked, clearly confused.

"It's complicated," John replied. There was a long silence, and then Sherlock finally spoke up.

"I've never had a relationship before," He said, " But I do find myself attracted to you, John Watson."

John's eyes widened considerably. He stared up at Sherlock for several agonizingly suspenseful seconds, unsure of what to say, and then just said:

"O-okay..."

Sherlock's expression curled into a frustrated grimace.

"_Okay_? What does that mean?"

"I don't know! You think this isn't just as odd for me? I've never been with a man before, either, Sherlock!"

He flailed his arms about dramatically, and Sherlock took a step back.

"I haven't ever been with someone of _either_ sex!" Sherlock admitted.

"Really?" John asked incredulously.

"Yes."

"_Never_? You've _never_ had a relationship? Not even when you were a young-"

"Never," Sherlock replied.

"Never even... Have you ever seen someone naked?"

"I'm sure you haven't forgotten about_ the woman_," Sherlock said.

"Other than her, I meant. You've never been in a relationship of any type?"

"No."

"You've never gone out on a date?"

"No, John."

"Has anyone ever asked you?"

"You know me. Do you really think someone would want to ask me? Besides, I never was really interested in anyone."

"Well yes, but I mean... a handsome bloke as yourself, you'd think someone would have made a move at one point."

Sherlock raised a brow, grinning.

"Are you _flirting_ with me?"

John's face turned a dark shade of red, and Sherlock's grin grew ever wider.

"N-no," John stammered, "I was- was just stating that..."

"Okay, look..." John held his hands up defensively, "It can't be much different than if I were with a woman. Let's just... do it like a normal couple."

"We're a couple now?"

"No! No, I didn't mean that."

"What _do_ you mean, then?"

"Could we maybe save this for later?"

"I'd much rather discuss it-"

There was a noise in the other room and both men froze, jerking their attention towards the kitchen entry way. The floorboards creaked in the hall, and Sherlock made haste to distance himself from John. He slipped back into that chair he had been sitting in at the kitchen table, picked up his pencil again, and then continued to toy with his newest experiment. John spun around and returned his attention to the toast that he had been in the process of making before Sherlock had interrupted him. Both men put on their best poker faces and pretended as if nothing had happened.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said as he appeared in the door way, "Where have you put my coat?"

"It's hanging in the foyer, brother. I would so much prefer that you didn't leave articles of clothing lazily draped over my furniture."

Mycroft let out an unpleasant groan that resembled somewhat of a growl.

"How long will you be staying?" John interrupted. He turned around and gave Mycroft a pleasant smile, biting into a piece of buttered toast. Mycroft looked over at him and smiled back.

"Don't worry, Mr. Watson. I don't plan on invading your home for too long."

John held his hands up defensively.

"No," He said, "I didn't mean like- You're welcome to stay for as long as you want."

Sherlock jerked his gaze towards John and glared, obviously disturbed by the very thought of Mycroft staying for as long as he wanted. He had been lenient in allowing him to spend the night in his residence; he would not be able to tolerate the company of his older sibling for more than 48 hours at most.

"No he isn't," Sherlock quickly replied.

Mycroft chuckled. He put his hand flat on the table and drummed his fingers against the wood, giving Sherlock a sour smile. Sherlock looked back at him and returned the unpleasantry. The two of them just stared at each other for ten solid minutes, neither saying a word. John suddenly felt very uncomfortable, but he didn't dare interrupt them. He slowly crept towards the kitchen exit, and then slipped out of the room unnoticed. Once he had escaped the hostility brewing in the kitchen, he made his way upstairs. He sat down in front of the telly, watched some news while he finished eating his toast, and then decided that it was time for him to get dressed for the day.

John weaved through the room and left without bothering to turn off the news. He shuffled down the hall and turned into his bedroom, walking over to his dresser. He trifled through his drawers, pulled out his favorite beige jumper, and then just held it up. He stared at the piece of clothing for several seconds, the sight of it triggering memory of the last time that he had worn it.

_"Bet you wish it were him. Don't you, Johnny?"_

John dropped the thick jumper and gasped, putting his hand over his mouth. He squeezed his eyes shut and forced the thought away, reminding himself that it was over. He was safe now.

When he opened his eyes again, he was still in his bedroom. He was alone, in his bedroom, just looking for a clean pair of clothes. There was no man lurking in the shadows, waiting for him. He just need to calm down and think logically. Sherlock and Mycroft were downstairs. Nobody could get past them unnoticed.

"It's okay," John whispered to himself, "I'm okay."

He dropped his hand to his side and took a deep breath, looking down at the jumper that he had dropped. He leaned down and grabbed it, neatly folding it and stuffing it into the back of one of his drawers. He then retrieved a purple long-sleeved shirt, a pair of dark blue jeans, and a fresh pair of socks. He slammed the drawer shut and sat the new outfit on top of his dresser, then proceeded to take his clothes off. After dressing, he stuffed his pajamas into his hamper and walked out of the room.

He started to make his way downstairs, but stopped at the top step as soon as he heard Sherlock shouting.

"You're getting fat, Mycroft!"

"Oh, how mature! You can't come up with anything better than that?"

"Just shut up! I'm so sick of you!"

"You're just as much to blame as I am!"

John swallowed hard, contemplating whether or not he should go downstairs. The risk of getting into an argument with the two of them could have some nasty consequences. But, on the other hand, he could probably sneak past them and leave without being dragged into the hostility. After all, Sherlock barely ever noticed when he would leave. He could grab his coat and go out for brunch somewhere; be back by the time they had finished their senseless bantering.

John sat down on the top step and let out a sigh, listening to the argument taking place in the kitchen. He didn't want to risk being pulled into it, so he decided to sit there and wait for it to simmer down. Fortunately, he didn't have to wait long.

"_Do you two know what time it is_!?" Mrs. Hudson yelled, clearly disturbed.

Both men fell silent. Sherlock looked over at Mrs. Hudson and his mouth snapped shut. Mycroft opened his mouth to say something, but Mrs. Hudson didn't gave him a chance. She grabbed the broom leaning against the wall and held it out towards him.

"I'll hit you over the head with this damned thing if you don't shut up!" She yelled, "And don't think I won't do it, Mr. Holmes. I'm getting old, and I need my sleep! You hear me? _I need my sleep_! So when I wake up because of you two going on about some stupid childhood experience, I'm not a very happy woman!"

Both men just stared at her, somewhat surprised by her sassy attitude. John chuckled inwardly, amused by the older woman's boldness.

"I'm..." Mycroft cleared his throat and bowed his head, "I'm very sorry, Mrs. Hudson. I didn't mean to wake you."

"You should be," She turned her attention to Sherlock, waiting for him to apologize, too.

"My apologies," He replied.

Mrs. Hudson nodded. She put the broom back in its rightful place, looked at Mycroft, looked at Sherlock, and then- after coming to the conclusion that she had succeeded in shutting them up- she turned and left without another word. She made sure to slam the door on her way out. A few minutes after she left, John decided that it was safe for him to leave. He cautiously climbed down the stairs and crept through the hall, making his way towards the door.

"Are you going somewhere, Doctor Watson?"

John stopped mid-step and cursed inwardly, relaxing. Evidently, he wasn't as stealthy as he had thought. He let out a defeated sigh and backed up, peering into the kitchen.

"I was just going for a walk," He said, "Don't mind me."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow suspiciously. Sherlock just stared at him for a moment, and then nodded his head, waving him off.

"Go on," He said, "Make sure you dress warm. It's snowing outside."

"Snowing?" John asked incredulously. He hadn't looked out the window or been outside all day, so he had no idea.

"Yes. It is November," Sherlock added matter-of-factly.

"Right, then." John stood there a moment, hesitating to leave the two Holmes brothers alone in the flat. He didn't like the idea of the two being alone together; destruction was likely to , he didn't want to end up with them starting another argument and him in the middle of it. He'd be willing to risk anything to prevent himself from such a predicament. Even if it meant he might come home to find the building on fire.

"See you later," He said. Then he left.

As soon as Mycroft was sure that John had left the building, he turned his attention back to Sherlock, who was staring off into space. The younger man looked like he was concentrating on something; deep in thought. Mycroft obnoxiously cleared his throat, and Sherlock snapped out of it.

"How is he?" Mycroft asked.

"Who?"

Sherlock looked over at his older brother and furrowed his brow.

"John," Mycroft replied, "How is he holding up?"

"He's fine," Sherlock said. He snatched the vat of melted door knob off of the kitchen table and walked over to the bin, haphazardly dumping the contents. He then walked over to the kitchen sink and neatly placed the glass container down, turning around to find Mycroft studying him closely.

"What are you looking at me like that for?"

"You know what I'm referring to," Mycroft said, "Did you talk to him about it?"

"Yes," Sherlock droned.

"And?"

"When I brought it up, he hit me."

Mycroft chuckled. Sherlock glared, watching as he walked over and took a seat across from him.

"It took me a while," Sherlock replied, "But we did discuss what happened."

"Was I wrong in my assumptions?"

"No. Unfortunately."

Sherlock grew quiet, staring off into the distance as he mulled over something in his head. Mycroft patiently sat there and studied him. He couldn't help but wonder what thoughts were plaguing his younger brother's mind. The younger man actually seemed concerned.

"Are you alright?" Mycroft asked.

"I wasn't the one raped."

"I'm aware... But you seem concerned."

"It's nothing of importance," Sherlock replied.

"It certainly seems important. Trust me, Sherlock. I know you better than you may think. I can tell when something's bothering you. And if it's bothering you, then it's only because you've decided that its important enough to bother you."

"Sometimes I hate you," Sherlock spat. Mycroft sat back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest, rolling his eyes.

"Yes. You've informed me on several different occasions. Now quit changing the-"

Mycroft's mobile started ringing, interrupting him mid-sentence. He excused himself, stood up, retrieved his mobile from his pocket, and then walked out of the room as he answered.

"Hello," Mycroft said, "Who is this?"

He stood just outside of the kitchen, leaning against the wall in the hallway. Sherlock scoot forward a bit and listened closely, eavesdropping on his brother's conversation. He couldn't hear the voice on the other side of the call, but he could hear Mycroft quite clearly. He had lowered his voice to an extent, but Sherlock could still comprehend everything he said.

"Yes, be here within the hour," Mycroft said.

There was a short pause, and then Mycroft said:

"No. My brother will be accompanying me this evening."

Sherlock furrowed his brow and sat back in his seat, silently pondering who it was that Mycroft was speaking to. It sounded as if he were talking to one of the men who worked for him, but he had deeply expressed to Sherlock that he didn't currently trust any of the men who worked for him. In fact, they were all under speculation for mutiny.

"I don't want anyone else to know about this little rendezvous- Am I understood?"

Maybe there was someone who Mycroft trusted. If that were the case, why hadn't Mycroft stayed with him, instead?

"Thank you. Yes. Goodbye."

Mycroft stuffed his mobile back in its rightful place, and then turned and walked back into the kitchen.

"I have someone coming to pick us up soon."

"I thought you said you didn't trust any of the people working for you?" Sherlock asked.

"There is one," Mycroft replied, " He has been loyal to me for several years."

"What's his name?"

"Unimportant."

"If he's so unimportant, why do you treat him so kindly?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You said goodbye," Sherlock said.

"It's called being polite," Mycroft replied.

"You _thanked_ him."

"Oh for God's- why are _you_ lecturing _me_ on this? You're the one who failed to notice that his dearest friend was brutalized. I think-"

Unexpectedly, Sherlock jumped out of his chair and flipped the table over. Mycroft jumped away from the flying piece of wood and braced himself against the wall, giving Sherlock a look of utter shock.

"Shut up, Mycroft! You always go too far!"


	3. Trigger

It was like that for the next two weeks. Sherlock and Mycroft were gone most of the time, but whenever they were at the flat, it seemed like all that they did was argue. It would always be Sherlock who lost his temper first. Mycroft was older, and therefore much more tame. However, the older brother still managed to lose his cool quite often. It seemed that he and Sherlock just had bad chemistry. It was a surprise that either of them managed to get any work done when in the presence of the other. They did, though. Over the course of one week,Sherlock had managed to take all of Mycroft's staff and cross out half of them as a possible suspect. Within the next week, he had reduced the suspect list down to only fifteen of the men working for or associated with Mycroft in any way. Mycroft took the fifteen men and reduced the list to ten. As expected, all of them were of a high rank. Each man also worked directly with Mycroft- either as guards, or as security.

However, there was no telling exactly who it was that had been betraying Mycroft. On the third week, Sherlock wormed his way into Mycroft's security personnel and planted himself in the system. He was undercover for a week, but failed to get any information out of anyone. It wasn't surprising, though, because all of Mycroft's staff had been put through extensive training that taught them to resist any and all types of interrogation. If any of the men who Sherlock had questioned was the man who had gone behind Mycroft's back, he would never tell. And Sherlock couldn't just go out and ask if anyone was being paid for their mutiny. Such an act would tip off the perpetrator, and then the entire operation would fail.

Sherlock had to be stealthy about it.

So, on the last week of the month, Sherlock decided to worm his way a bit further into the lives of the men in question. Not only did he scrutinize every inch of their offices, lockers, and cars... he went as far as to break into each individual's house and look for clues. But by the time he had done all of that, he had only succeeded in deducing small, insignificant details such as:

- Mark Myers (Security Division) is having an affair with his wife's best friend, his wife's sister, and his wife's best friend's daughter. He even secretly spent all of the money they had been saving up for their son's college while gambling. He has no pets, two children, and his brother lives with them.

- Jackson Dewitt (Security Division) lost his wife in a fatal car accident two years ago. Since then, he came home drunk every night and beat his children. His oldest ran away five months ago, and currently resides within the homeless community.

- Scott Davis (One of Mycroft's personal bodyguards) lives alone in an apartment building a few blocks away from where Sherlock lives. He's a seemingly innocent man. He owns two dogs- both of which are greyhounds- and a cat. There was no slanderous evidence that Sherlock could find.

- Andrew Weathersbee (Security Division) likes to spend most of his evenings at a pub down the street from his house. He's never been married, never had any children. He served in Afghanistan as part of a bomb squad. He lost his leg during a mission gone wrong, and now has an artificial limb in its place.

- Martin Cumbers (Security Division) is secretly gay. In fact, he is currently sleeping with Benedict French (Head of the Security Division). Benedict- who is actually married- started having an affair with Martin shortly after realizing that his wife no longer excited him sexually.

- Sev Randall (Security Division) Graduated at the top of his class in an american college. He moved to London after graduating so that he could be back with his family. He's engaged to a woman named Stacy, who runs a modest bakery.

- Michelle Simmons (Security division) grew up in Russia. He's married with four children. He's a victim of credit fraud; his brother secretly taking money out of his account in the amount of fifty quid every month. He has a pet cat, his daughter cuts herself because of insecurity issues, and his youngest son wets the bed.

-Thomas Fletcher (Guard Division) started working for Mycroft less than a month ago. He had multiple altercations with the police as an adolescent. He's allergic to latex, he frequents the cafe down his street, and he has a history of relationships with people of both sexes.

-Donovan McGinley (Security Divison) is a relatively boring man with a surprisingly clean slate. He went to college for criminal justice, his father is a judge, and he pretty much managed to get a job in the government through his father's position.

- Westley Arnes (Security Division) lives with his wife and child. He used to live in America. After retrieving a new identity due to accidentally seeing something that he shouldn't have, he started a new life. He got married, had a child, and then moved to London. Shortly after that, he began working with the british government.

None of that was important, though. Sherlock knew every little detail in each and every one of those men's live, but he couldn't utilize any of it to get the information that he actually needed. Whoever was working behind Mycroft's back was hiding the evidence very well. Not one of the men on Mycroft's suspect list had any incriminating evidence that Sherlock could find. Other than some of the disgruntling personal details that the consulting detective had found out about a few of them, they all seemed innocent.

It was already the end of November, and he still had failed to recover any useful information for his older brother.

So Sherlock decided to take one last look into everything that he had gone over already. He sat down in his chair and crossed one leg over the other, putting his hands palm-up on either arm. He then closed his eyes and went to his mind palace, hoping that he would find the information that he needed hidden within. Perhaps he had seen it, but failed to observe it. Perhaps it was tucked away...tucked far away in the depths of his mind.

Anything.

Just _one_ little hint.

It had to be there some-

Sherlock snapped out of concentration when his mobile started ringing. He jerked his attention towards his bedroom door, stared at it for a while as he contemplated whether or not he would get up to retrieve the call, and then finally gave in to the temptation. He jumped out of his chair, adjusted his shirt collar, and then walked over to his bedroom and opened the door. He quickly snatched his mobile off of the edge of his bed, looked to see who was calling, and then answered.

"Hello, George. I was-"

"It's Greg!" Lestrade yelled through the other side of the call. Sherlock held his mobile away from his head and winced.

"Greg, okay..." Sherlock reapplied the small device next to his ear, "What do you need?"

"I have another case I can't figure out."

"Of course," Sherlock replied, "Give me the details."

He didn't care how boring or domestic it may seem. He'd take practically anything at the moment, just to get a break away from the aggravatingly difficult case that he was currently working on. He'd been helping Mycroft for an entire month now, and had almost no results to prove it.

"We got a call from a construction company two hours ago. They were renovating this old building up on-"

"Skip that. Give me the good stuff."

Lestrade groaned. Sherlock smiled, imagining him standing there and rolling his eyes.

"It's an old woman," Lestrade said, "She's been murdered. But the odd bit is that all of her limbs have been severed."

John walked in through the front door and Sherlock glanced over at him. John gave him a quick glance, but then dropped his head and disappeared into the kitcen. Something seemed off about him; the way he was walking, the way he held himself, the way he was quick to hide his face...

"I'll be right back," Sherlock said.

"Wait, Sherlock-"

Sherlock put his mobile down on the arm of the chair and walked into the other room, cautiously approaching the kitchen. He peered around the doorway and looked over at John with an expression of concern. Unfortunately, John was rummaging through one of the cupboards. All that he could see was his back.

"John?" Sherlock called out. The doctor tensed. As soon as he heard Sherlock's footsteps approaching, he used his hand to wipe his face and forced a smile onto his lips.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked.

John slowly turned around and nodded curtly, gripping the edge of the counter as if he'd fall over without it's support.

"I'm fine," He lied.

"I don't like it when you lie to me," Sherlock retorted. John just started at him, his happy facade slowly melting into a look of distress. Sherlock could read him like a book. He was slightly slouched, which was unlike his usual curt army posture. His jaw was clenched in an attempt to hide his quivering lip. His eyes were red and swollen. He was even gripping the counter as if his leg was bothering him again. His leg hadn't bothered him in over a month.

"Something happened," Sherlock said.

"Nothing happened," John replied, "I'm fine. Just had a long day at work, you know? Nothing happened. I don't know why you think something happened."

"You're babbling," Sherlock replied, "It's one of your tells. Whenever you try to lie about something, you always babble."

"I'm not babbling, I just want you to get off my case."

"I want you to tell me you're alright."

"I'm fine," John lied.

"I want you to tell me and _not_ lie about it."

"_I'm fine_," John urged.

"No, you're not. Something happened, and I want you to tell me what."

Sherlock was becoming increasingly worried. He didn't like it when John was uncomfortable about telling him something. It usually meant that the slightly older man didn't want to share it because of how personal it was. In this case, something had caused him to cry, and it must have really affected him.

"_Nothing happened_."

"If you keep saying that," Sherlock replied, "Then I'll tell you each and every detail that shows me otherwise, and I know that you just absolutely hate it when I deduce things about you."

John's expression hardened. He still just stared at Sherlock, refusing to admit whatever it was that was bothering him.

"_John Hamish Watson_-"

"No."

"No?"

"You will _not_ deduce anything about me," John sternly replied, "And I will _not_ tell you what happened. It's none of your bloody business. Any other day you'd tell me to shut up and keep my domestic issues to myself because they're so damn boring, so why don't you just drop it and piss off?"

With that, he shoved Sherlock out of the way and walked towards the kitchen exit.

"You've been crying," Sherlock said. John stopped mid-stride and spun around, glaring at him. Sherlock scanned him from head to toe, and then began naming all of the oddities that he observed.

"Shut up!" John shouted. He took a step towards Sherlock and jabbed an accusatory finger at him, staring at the taller man with wide, angry eyes.

"_You shut up right now_," He growled, "_Don't you dare_."

"You usually walk around with an upright, army-like posture," Sherlock continued, "But now you've got a bit of a slouch. It isn't much, so I doubt you even notice. In fact, you're probably just exhausted. But you don't get exhausted sitting around in an office while giving everyday check-ups. So your slouch must be more of a mental exhaustion than a physical one. Then there's the limp. Just now, when you tried to walk away, you had a bit of a limp. It isn't as bad as usual, so you must have tried to force yourself to walk normal. In other words, you're deliberately trying to hide that something triggered the limp again. And, of course, a limp wasn't the only reaction triggered. I can tell by the redness and the swelling of your eyes that you've been crying. Not just a bit, either. You're eyes are red, and the constant blinking tells me that they're quite irritated. You've been crying a lot, and you've been rubbing your eyes and face in an attempt to hide the tears. That would account for the swelling. Then there's the all-too-obvious fact that you left work early to-"

John stumbled sideways due to the immense pain in his leg,but caught himself on the wall. Sherlock stopped speaking and stared at him, waiting for him to say something.

"_Dammit_!" John yelled, punching the wall. He looked over at Sherlock and glared daggers at him, clearly annoyed.

"If you'd just-"

"I had to treat a rape victim today!" John looked over at Sherlock and gave him a look of regret. Sherlock just stared at him, unsure of what to say.

"I don't see why it's any of your business," John spat, "But I had to prescribe a young girl the pill and talk to her about STI's. A bruise on her arm reminded me of something, and I had to leave work early."

Sherlock dropped his head and shifted his weight awkwardly.

"I just wanted to make sure nobody hurt you," Sherlock sheepishly replied. John let out an exasperated sigh and rubbed one of his eyes with a hand.

"Please," He said as he leaned his back against the wall and slid down until sitting on the hard wood floor, "Just leave me alone."

"But I-"

"_Go away_."

Sherlock closed his mouth and simply nodded. He then walked into the other room, retrieved his mobile from the chair, and disappeared into his bedroom.


	4. Complications

When Sherlock came out his room later that evening, he was surprised to find John sound asleep on the sofa. He was sprawled out on the piece of furniture- which was just the right size for his short figure- and one of his arms had fallen over the edge. His face was buried into the cushion, mouth wide open as he snored away. Sherlock smiled at the sight of it. He stood there and watched the man sleep for a second, and then grabbed a blanket and carefully draped it over him.

John's eyes slowly peeled open and he lazily stared up at Sherlock. Sherlock was legitimately surprised that he had managed to wake him up simply by covering him with a blanket. Then again, John had probably grown accustomed to being a light sleeper since he was attacked.

"Didn't mean to wake you," Sherlock said.

John smacked his lips together and sat up, yawning. He rubbed one of his eyes and stretched the other arm out, looking around with a confused look on his face.

"No I didn't," John replied, still groggy with sleep.

"You didn't what?" Sherlock asked.

"I didn't go," He replied, "Me and Sherlock went to see the fireworks."

"Sherlock and I," Sherlock corrected.

"Wait," Sherlock said, "_Fireworks_? When did we go to see fireworks?"

The consulting detective looked confused. John fell back onto the sofa and pulled the blanket up to his neck, closing his eyes again. He continued to talk gibberish, and Sherlock only became more confused. He just stared at the half-awake man, perplexed.

"Remember, Sherlock? We saw the fireworks, and you kissed me. Mrs. Hudson saw us and she got all... giddy..."

Sherlock stared at him for a long moment, and then he finally realized that John wasn't really aware of what he was saying. He smiled. At least the man was finally dreaming about something pleasant.

Sherlock snatched his computer from under his chair and sat it in his lap, opening it. He poked the power key, and then he input his usual password. His desktop flickered onto the screen, and he immediately clicked his e-mail icon. Surprisingly, he still hadn't received another message from Moriarty. He hadn't received one since the day befor John was...

"I love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked over at his flat mate sleeping on the sofa and just stared at him for a while, his eyes wide. He knew that John wasn't actually aware of what he was saying, but still. Those three little words ignited something within him that he didn't quite understand.  
...

John woke up the next morning due to the sound of the front door opening. It shut, and then there was the sound of footsteps that gradually got louder as they got closer. The doctor sat up and yawned, blinking rapidly until his vision came into focus. When he was finally able to make out his surroundings, he realized that Sherlock had also fallen asleep in the living area. Oddly enough, he had fallen asleep curled in the fetal position atop his chair. Unlike John, the sound of the front door being opened had not disturbed his sleep.

"Hello, Doctor Watson."

John looked over to find Mycroft had appeared in the kitchen doorway. The older Holmes looked over at Sherlock, rolled his eyes, and then asked:

"Long night?"

"He's just..." John gestured towards Sherlock, still groggy with sleep.

"Looks extremely uncomfortable," Mycroft replied.

"He's sleeping," John managed.

"Yes," Mycroft sarcastically replied, "_Brilliant_ _observation_, Doctor."

John frowned.

"Do you _need_ something?" John asked, his tone suddenly taking on a bit more hostility.

"I need my brother. Tell me, has he come up with any results yet?"

"Results?"

"Yes, _Results_. Has he managed to find out which of my men is responsible?"

"I...I don't..."

"Do _you_ have any theories?"

"Okay, wait."

John stood up and adjusted his shirt. He fixed his hair to the best of his abilities without a mirror, stretched his arms out, and then scratched the side of his stubbled face and gave Mycroft a peculiar look. Mycroft just stared at him, waiting for his response.

"I don't know," John said.

"Well, have you looked at any of the evidence? Surely you have _some_ sort of an opinion."

"Sherlock said you didn't want me on this," John replied.

"What? I don't remember saying anything to that effe...Oh."

"Hm?"

A look of realization flickered across Mycroft's face.

"I suppose he didn't want you to know that," The older Holmes replied, smiling politely.

"Wait," John said suspiciously, "You _didn't_ tell him to exclude me because of how personal it was?"

"No."

"So the bugger lied to me?"

John looked over at Sherlock angrily, then returned his gaze to Mycroft.

"He just didn't want me involved," John seethed.

"I'm sure he had his reasons," Mycroft offered.

"I'm _sure_."

John grabbed his coat and and walked off without another word. He ran past Mycroft, put his coat on, and then left. Mycroft was left alone in the apartment with a sleeping Sherlock, knowing that he had definitely just messed something up.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said a short while after John had left, "Wake up!"

He shouted, causing his younger brother to jolt out of sleep and stand up, taking a defensive position in front of the chair. He grabbed a book and held it high in the air, threatening to kill someone with it. Mycroft just stood there and stared at him curiously.

"Just me," He replied.

"_Just as bad_," Sherlock snarked. He dropped the book back onto the coffee table and straightened himself out. He then glanced over at the empty sofa and asked where John was.

"He left," Mycroft replied.

"He didn't mention having work today," Sherlock said. He glanced over at the clock and grimaced.

Mycroft contemplated explaining what had happened, but decided against it. Sherlock would find out eventually. If he told him, then he'd most likely end up with the blame, and then he'd have an angry Sherlock Holmes to deal with. He really wasn't in the mood for that at the moment.

"Have you come up with anything, yet?" Mycroft asked.

"No, I haven't."

"What's taking you so bloody long?"

"If you'd rather, you could do it yourself," Sherlock recommended.

"It needs to be dealt with as soon as possible," Mycroft replied, "I don't have time for you to not take this seriously."

"I am aware, Mycroft. I _have_ been taking this case seriously."

"Then prove it. I want results by the end of December."

Mycroft turned and began to leave, but Sherlock interrupted him.

"Wait."

"What is it?" Mycroft asked as he turned around to face Sherlock once again.

"Have you...taken care of Moriarty?" Sherlock asked.

"There hasn't been any signs of him," Mycroft replied.

"That's what I was afraid of."

"Why?"

"He hasn't contacted me, either."

Mycroft smiled bitterly.

"Let's hope that whatever distraction he's found isn't too life-threatening," He said.

"There haven't been any more break-ins?"

"No."

Sherlock stood there and stared at the wall with a blank expression. He furrowed his brow and concentrated, thinking real hard about something. Mycroft patiently waited a few feet away, leaning on the umbrella that he had brought with him.

"You don't have to worry about anymore breaches," Sherlock said, "Your men were being paid off so that Moriarty could utilize you and your information against John in order to get to me. I believe that the first time someone broke into your office, they were most likely trying to get ahold of one of your files on us. The car being blown up in front of the flat was definitely just to keep attention away from the flat, and when someone tried to steal the file on John, it was obviously to use as blackmail...against _John_. All of the break-ins could be explained as attempts to get at _one of us._ But now there isn't anything else that you could provide against us, so he'll stop."

"I still need to know which one of my personnel was willing to turn on me," Mycroft replied.

"In due time. I think our safety is a bit more important."

Mycroft grunted.

"It isn't when a branch of the government is being threatened. I'm sure Moriarty isn't the only man who would pay someone off in order to get into a top-secret facility and steal information, Sherlock. You need to find the culprit and bring him to me before something like this happens again. Such complications could cause damage to the _throne_. In this case, I'd say the Queen's safety is _much_ more important than _yours or John's_."

Sherlock just stood there and stared at him for a while, unsure whether or not Mycroft had a valid point. Well, he knew that Mycroft had a valid point. Of course the queen was much more important than John or him. Well, John's safety was more important to him, but the british government meant a lot more in the eyes of London as a whole. Either way, Mycroft was right. He hated to admit it, but it was true.

"Fine," Sherlock said, "I'll stay on the case."


	5. The Silent Treatment

So Sherlock did as he was told. He stayed on the case for the next month, looking for anything unusual or suspicious. He continued to fake working as a security guard for Mycroft's office, keeping a close eye on the ten individuals who were currently under suspicion. Whenever he was home, all that he would do was sit there and go to his mind palace. He'd sit in the living area for hours, just thinking through everything. When he'd grow bored of that, he'd go to his computer. He'd research anything that came to mind until the need for sleep started to invade his body. Then he would go to bed, wake up, get dressed in the usual uniform, and head for work.

It was a daily routine for weeks. It became habit. He would wake up early in the morning, get dressed in the uniform that Mycroft had provided him, and then play pretend for the day. He'd be stationed in front of Mycroft's personal office for the most part, but whenever he saw necessary, he'd sneak away and snoop around elsewhere. He'd act like a normal being- which was extremely difficult for him- and put himself in situations that he thought might be able to get him some information. Sometimes he would secretly follow around one of the suspects. Sometimes he would simply engage in everyday conversations with one of them. Over time, it bored the living hell out of him. But he had to do it.

And whenever he wasn't pretending to work for Mycroft, he'd still be working the case at home. He'd go over every single detail of the day in his mind, ignoring everything that happened around him.

John didn't comment. In fact, the doctor had started habitually leaving the flat and disappearing for whole days at a time. Sherlock assumed that he left to give him peace and quiet, or because he had to work. But whenever he was home, he didn't interact with Sherlock at all. Even when Sherlock tried to talk to him, he would just ignore him. Sherlock came to the conclusion that he was mad. Possibly about what had happened the other day, when John wouldn't tell him what had happened to make him cry.

Sherlock concluded that must have been the reason. He contemplated whether or not he should discuss the matter with John, but whenever he had the chance, John was always gone. His schedule was filled due to the case that he was working on for Mycroft, and therefore none of his time at the flat coincided with John's. In the end, he decided just to ignore the fact that he was being ignored. John would get over his bitterness on his own. Eventually.

Or at least, Sherlock had thought.

But an entire month went by, and John still wasn't speaking to him. Christmas was two days away. If John wouldn't even speak to him on holiday...

Sherlock had to do something. So, On Christmas Eve, he pushed everything that he had planned for the day aside and decided that he would find John- wherever he may be- and talk to him. He tried to call him on his mobile, but he didn't answer. It could have been because he was ignoring him, or it could have been because the doctor was working. Sherlock had no way of knowing which was the truth, but he had hoped that it was the ladder.

"I'll check work," He said. He stuffed his phone into his pocket, grabbed his scarf, wrapped his scarf around his neck, and then left the flat. he made sure to shut the door, then carefully climbed down the stairs and retrieved his coat from the coat rack next to the door. After putting his coat on, he left.

It was Christmas Eve, so it would be nearly impossible for him to get a taxi. He ended up walking, and it took him almost an hour to get to John's work by foot.

"Hello," Sherlock said to the woman at the front desk, "Is Doctor Watson in?"

The young woman looked up at him and gave a pleasant smile. She looked down at something, wrote herself a note, and then returned her attention to Sherlock, who was still standing there, looking very impatient.

"Do you have an appointment?" She asked.

"No."

"Okay, let me sign you up then."

She reached over and grabbed a clipboard to the right of her, checking the schedule for any openings.

"Doctor Watson isn't in at the moment," She replied, "Would the day after tomorrow at four work?"

"I'm not here for a bloody check-up, you stupid..." Sherlock replied, his tone clearly annoyed. The thin redhead working at the desk gave him a perplexed look, putting her clipboard down. She glanced over at something, tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and then asked what it was that he needed Doctor Watson for.

"He's a friend of mine. You said he isn't working?"

"He left a few hours ago."

"That's odd..." Sherlock said aloud, more to himself than the dim-witted redhead he was talking to.

"Why is that odd?" She asked.

"Don't see how it involves you," Sherlock snapped.

He turned and walked away without saying anything else. He left without so much as a farewell, and then started aimlessly walking down the street. He had no idea where to look for his friend. Then something came to mind. He pulled out his mobile and input John's number. It took a bit of hacking and a few seconds of cellular calculation, but the coordinates of John''s whereabouts soon popped up on the screen. Sherlock groaned as he realized that the doctor had unfortunately made his way to another bar.

"Just great," He said to himself.

Luckily, there was a familiar-looking vehicle driving towards him.

"Hey!" Sherlock ran into the street and waved down the taxi. It drove up to him and came to a halt. Without hesitation, he stepped inside and barked an address at the driver.

"I'll tip you an extra fifty quid if we make it there within five minutes," Sherlock said. He knew that it was dangerous to travel at that kind of speed when the ground was covered in snow and ice, but he didn't care. He just wanted to get to John before he ended up making a scene like the last time he had been to a bar. He hoped that he wasn't already too late.

"Fifty quid?" The driver asked. Sherlock nodded, and the driver smiled widely.

"You got it," He replied. He pushed on the gas, and Sherlock flew back into his seat. They sped down the road and took a right, sending Sherlock -who had failed to buckle up- into the door of the car. They took a left, Sherlock flew across the back of the vehicle, and then they came to a stop due to a red light. As soon as the light turned, they continued to speed down the road.

Sherlock felt somewhat motion sick.

They took another right, and then spun around 180 degrees due to a patch of ice. The vehicle nearly crashed into a pole. It came to a complete stop, and Sherlock cupped his hand over his mouth, on the edge of puking up everything that he had eaten that day.

"Add another fifty if you puke in my car," The cabbie said as he slowly began to drive again. He made a large U-turn, and Sherlock swallowed hard. He gestured for the driver to keep going. They continued to drive down the road at a very illegal speed, and then they took a left at the intersection. It was a relatively busy street, so he made sure to make this turn a bit more carefully than he had with the last. He then drove halfway down the road, came to a halt in front of a large pub, and turned around in his seat so that he was facing Sherlock.

"Four minutes," He said with a grin.

Sherlock reached into his pocket and retrieved his wallet.

"What do I owe you?"

"Fifty-eight pounds."

Sherlock took out a hundred quid and handed it to him, telling him to keep the change. He then stumbled out of the vehicle and walked over to a nearby bin, puking. The taxi sped away. Sherlock stood up and wiped his mouth with his hand, then he carefully tucked his wallet back into the pocket of his trousers and looked around.

Another wave of nausea hit him, and he leaned against the nearby building, closing his eyes. He stood there for a moment, holding his abdomen as he tried to force the urge to puke away. Once he no longer felt like he had to worry about losing any more of his stomach contents, he stood up and looked over at the entrance to the bar. He took a deep breath, and then he made his way over and swung the front door open, walking inside.

As soon as Sherlock made an entrance, almost every single person in the bar looked over at him. Most of them were just fleeting glances, but a few gazes lingered on him long enough to make him feel uncomfortable. The unsettling fact was that it seemed as if they were deliberately staring at him; trying to get his attention. Sherlock shrugged it off as him being paranoid, but then someone actually got up and walked over to him.

"Hey there," Said the stranger. He approached Sherlock and offered his hand. Sherlock just stared at him, feeling extremely out of place. He didn't know why, but something felt...off.

"Okay, then. I take it you aren't used to this type of atmosphere. Just trying it out?"

The stranger was about the same height as him. He had short brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His suit was nice; very expensive. His cologne was...perfume?

"My name's Yuri," The man offered, "You got a name?"

He was from Russia by the sound of his accent. He had a cat. The bottoms of his trousers had a few stray animal hairs. His newly polished shoes were quite expensive, yet one of them bore teeth marks. Delete the thought that he had a cat- cats don't chew on shoes. He had a small dog.

"Hey," Yuri asked, "Are you okay?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied absent-mindedly. He looked around the room. There were two women sitting together in the far corner. Another woman was sitting at the bar, alone. A few seats down from her was John. He hadn't noticed that Sherlock had entered the bar; he was too involved in a conversation with the man seated next to him.

"Can I ask you something?" Sherlock asked. He looked back at Yuri and gave him a frustrated look. Yuri simply nodded his head. Sherlock looked directly at his face for the first time, immediately noticing that his eyebrows had been waxed, and his eyes were outlined in black eyeliner.

"Is this-"

Sherlock stopped abruptly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man next to John wrap his arm around John's waist. He suddenly felt the urge to walk over and remove the arm from his flat mate. He contemplated walking over and slamming the man's head into the bar. Images of a bloodied stranger and very distraught John flashed through his mind, and he decided against it.

"This is a gay bar," Sherlock stated plainly.

"Yes," Yuri replied.

Sherlock turned around and left without another word.


	6. Jingle Bells

Sherlock went home. When John came back to the flat later that evening, he was surprised to discover that Sherlock was already there. When he walked into the living area, Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, staring at him. His expression was unreadable. But he...he was just _staring_ at him. Of course, he had done it several times before, but it still made John feel uncomfortable. Wherever he walked, Sherlock would follow him with his eyes. He wouldn't take his gaze off of the shorter man.

"What are you staring at me for?" John asked.

"Have fun with your boyfriend?" Sherlock asked.

John sat down in a chair and unzipped his coat. He took his coat off and threw it over the arm of the chair, looking over to find that Sherlock was still staring at him.

"What are you going on about?" He asked.

"I didn't know gay bars were your thing," Sherlock replied.

"How did you-"

"I tracked your phone."

John stared incredulously at the man for a solid minute, unsure of how to respond. Admittedly, he was a bit surprised that Sherlock had actually followed him.

"Stalker."

"You weren't answering your calls, and I was worried."

"I deliberately ignored your calls," John replied.

"I figured."

"You never answer _your_ mobile, either, so don't get pissy over it."

There was a moment of silence as they just glared at each other, and then John leaned forward and rubbed his face with his hands. He scratched the back of his head, let out a sigh, and then sat back in his seat and watched Sherlock curiously. Sherlock continued to stare at him, which was becoming increasingly annoying by the second.

"Do you want to know why I'm mad at you?" John asked.

"I presume it's because I pried when you wouldn't tell me what was bothering you."

"No, Sherlock. It's not."

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"What?" He asked, "It isn't?"

"You really thought I was mad about that?"

"Well, yes. I mean, I haven't done anything else to offend you... other than melt your door knob."

"I am mad about that!" John said, "But not mad enough to ignore you for a bloody _month_!"

"What ever are you mad about, then?"

"I'm mad, Sherlock, because you lied to me."

Sherlock's brow furrowed further, to the point where his eyebrow knit together. He just stared at John, unaware of what he had lied about.

"You told me Mycroft didn't want me involved in your case," John said.

As soon as Sherlock realized what he was referring to, his mouth melted into a frown. John licked his lips and sat forward.

"Yes," He said, "You know what I'm talking about. You told me that he didn't want me involved because it was private. But you were just lying. So, what is it, then? Why don't you want me involved, Sherlock?"

"I didn't want to involve you, because it has to do with Moriarty."

A look of fear flickered across John's face, but he quickly regained himself. Sherlock could tell, though. He knew how uneasy even the mention of his name made John feel. That's why he hadn't told him about Mycroft's case in the first place. Because he knew John would want no part in it.

"Okay," John said, "Now I feel like a bit of a cock."

"That's because you are," Sherlock teased.

"Oh, shut up. You are, too." John said, smiling involuntarily.

"Oh? How so?"

"Dammit. This always happens!" John replied in frustration.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

"What always happens?"

"I'll try to stay pissed off," John said, "But then you'll say something funny or do something stupid, causing me to laugh or smile, and I won't be able to remain mad."

Sherlock stood up and adjusted his shirt. He smiled widely, looked over at John, and then crossed his eyes. John tried not to react, but then Sherlock stuck out his tongue, and he started laughing hysterically. He cursed at him for being such an inappropriately amusing person, and then he sat back and let out a sigh, grabbing his side. Sherlock just grinned at him, beaming victoriously.

"What's so wrong with that?" Sherlock asked.

"Because," John said, "I'm trying to be mad at you."

Sherlock gave him a weird look.

"Even though you aren't mad?"

"Yes."

"That makes absolutely no sense at all," Sherlock replied.

"Well, if you-"

"You're an irrational man, John Watson! "

Sherlock spun around dramatically and flung his hands into the air. John watched him, smiling widely. He shook his head in amusement, and then pushed himself out of his chair and shuffled into the kitchen. Sherlock turned around and followed him. The two men disappeared into the dining area together.

"Do you want to help with the Moriarty case?" Sherlock asked.

"No."

"Right. Just wanted to make sure."

John didn't reply. He opened the refrigerator and then flinched away. He held the door wide open and turned around, giving Sherlock a disapproving look. Sherlock stared at him with a blank expression on his face, unaware of what he was suddenly irritated by.

"Is it really necessary to keep body parts inside the fridge?" John asked.

Sherlock looked at the severed arms in the refrigerator, then back at John.

"They're just arms," Sherlock said.

"There just- I don't care if they're bloody feet, or toes, or if they're human eyes. I don't want to envision rotting corpses every time I go to fetch a meal."

"It's not a corpse, It's just arms."

John stared at him, blinking. Sometimes he seriously wondered... The man had not even an inkling of the definition of etiquette. He'd grow mold in petry dishes in the sink, and store body parts in the refrigerator, simultaneously reading up on the different species of insects that often made homes in the flesh of post-mordem bodies- all while he sat back in a chair and nibbled on stale biscuits.

"You seriously don't understand why I find it so revolting, do you?"

Sherlock shrugged. He really didn't comprehend what was wrong with holding body parts in the fridge. It never bothered him at all. Besides, he had been doing it since way before John had moved in with him. The doctor had experienced discovering much worse than arms before. He should be used to it by now.

"If we ever come into some money," John said, "We're investing in a small stock freezer for you."

_"It's just arms_," Sherlock said.

"Okay," John said, "I get it. They're just arms. Sorry I brought it up. Not a big deal- just stop fussing about it."

He muttered something under his breath, but Sherlock didn't hear him.

"Tomorrow's Christmas," Sherlock said out of nowhere. John shoved the bag of post-mortem appendages aside and reached back to retrieve a bag of grapes. He took the bag out, and then he shut the refrigerator door.

"Yes," John said.

"I did notice that you put a tree up in the living room."

"Yes. Did that while you were gone."

"Are we having anyone over this year?" Sherlock asked. John just shrugged. He hadn't invited anyone, but people would probably show up, anyway. Lestrade always popped in to celebrate, and Mrs. Hudson would always bake cookies and sit around telling stories of when she was younger. There was a slight possibility that Molly would show up. Hopefully, she wouldn't bring her creepy Sherlock look-alike boyfriend with her.

"I haven't invited anyone specific," John said.

"Lestrade will show up," Sherlock said, "As usual."

"Mrs. Hudson will definitely come up to pay a visit."

"Molly might. Maybe not. She's engaged, now."

"Ah yes," John giggled. Sherlock shot him a knowing look, then barked at him to shut up. John laughed even louder, and Sherlock's face started to turn red.

"He looks exactly like you," John said, "You have to admit it's amusing."

"It's... y'know. What's the word?"

"Awkward?"

"Yes, that."

"I didn't think you could comprehend the feeling of awkwardness," John replied.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You're an imbecile."

"Well you're a psychopath."

"High-functioning sociopath," Sherlock corrected.

They laughed simultaneously. The two looked over at each other and locked gazes. Sherlock's expression was unreadable. Even his posture gave John absolutely no idea what he was thinking about. On the other hand, Sherlock could read everything about the man before him. He knew that John hadn't slept much the night before, had refrained from shaving for at least two days, and was currently thinking about something sexual. He deduced that last detail from the fact that John was scanning him from head to toe while subconsciously biting his lip.

The consulting detective raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock asked. His voice shook John out of his daydream.

"Oh, nothing. I'm not thinking about anything. I just sort of zoned out. I was just admiring your shirt. So yeah, not think-"

"You're babbling again," Sherlock replied. John's face reddened.

"I was not," He argued.

"Were too," Sherlock muttered.

John rolled his eyes. He stuck another grape in his mouth and bit it in half. He then bit it again and swallowed it. Sherlock looked away and furrowed his brow, thinking hard about something. John studied him for a long moment, and then leaned back against the counter and set the bag of grapes down next to him.

"Is something wrong?" He asked.

Sherlock didn't hear him.

"Sherlock."

Still, no answer. The man had tuned completely out. It took a smack in the head to bring him back to reality, and when that happened, Sherlock looked up at his flat mate and scowled.

"What was that for?"

"You were doing it again," John replied.

"Doing what?"

"You'd zoned out. I said your name twice, and you completely ignored me."

"What do you want?" Sherlock snapped.

"I asked you what you were thinking about."

"Nothing important," Sherlock replied. There was a long pause. Sherlock stared over at the wall, and John studied him curiously. Then, out of nowhere:

"Are you going to see him again?" Sherlock asked.

"See who?"

"The man at the bar."

John laughed.

"No."

"Good. I just wondered. Who was he?"

"I have no idea," John replied.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on the table, and then crossed his arms over his chest and gave John a skeptical look. John rolled his eyes and laughed inwardly. When Sherlock pointed out the fact that he had seemed way too comfortable with the man's arm around him, John retorted by explaining that he had told the man about the misunderstanding and promptly left the bar shortly afterwards.

"You wouldn't have to worry about it if you hadn't followed me. Stalker."

"I wasn't stalking you," Sherlock replied, somewhat of an annoyed groan. He looked up at the ceiling and took a deep breath, then craned his neck around to look at John again.

"Are you jealous, Sherlock?"

" I don't get jealous, John."

"Fibbing."

"I am not."

"Are too."

Sherlock squinted at him, annoyed by his persistence. John gave him an accusatory look.

"How can you tell?" Sherlock asked.

"You're jealous," John said.

"That isn't a reasonable-!"

"Actually," John lied, "We had rough sex in the bathroom."

"What?"

Sherlock's eyes widened and he just stared at the shorter man in disbelief. He had absolutely no idea how to respond to that. He suddenly felt very uncomfortable. Then John started laughing hysterically, and he realized that he had just been lied to. He relaxed, but gave his flat made an irritated look.

"Told you," John chuckled, " You're jealous."

"I'm not jealous! I just- you caught me off guard, that's all."

Sherlock dropped his feet off of the table and sat up, turning in his seat so that his entire body was facing John.

"Was he... a friend?" Sherlock asked.

"See? Jealous."

"I am not jealous, John! Simple curiosity."

"You're simply curious as to who was flirting with me at the bar?"

"Yes. Exactly."

"No," John corrected, "Sherlock Holmes doesn't simply get curious about domestic things like boyfriends. You're jealous."

"He's your boyfriend?" Sherlock asked. By the tone of his voice, he obviously disapproved of such a relationship.

"No," John frankly replied, "He's not."

"Colleague?"

"Sherlock-"

"_Patient_?"

"Sherlock! He's not a patient. I would never violate my work ethics."

"Then who is he?"

"None of your business."

"Why are you being so secretive about it?"

"Why are you so persistant?"

"I just-"

"Jealous, Sherlock."

Sherlock stood up, walked over to John, leaned forward, and then just stared directly into John's eyes. He was close enough for John to feel the heat of his body against his own. Sherlock reached over and pulled a graped out of the bag, then- without breaking eye contact- he popped it into his mouth and chewed it very slowly. John watched his mouth during the process. Then Sherlock swallowed, grinning widely.

"Alright. I may be a bit Jealous. But I have a good reason to be, John."

John swallowed hard, his eyes still glued to Sherlock's lips. He leaned back against the counter and braced himself on the edge, looking up to find Sherlock's eyes slowly making their way down the length of his body. It made his cheeks burn red. And he hated it; hated how Sherlock could make so much of an impact on him like that. The man had no sexual experience whatsoever, and yet he somehow knew how to make someone melt just by speaking in a certain tone, or looking at them a certain way.

It was frustrating.

"So," Sherlock purred, "Are you going to tell me who he is?"

John gasped as Sherlock raised his hand and gingerly placed it flat in the middle of his chest. The simple connection filled Johns stomach with butterflies, and he could feel the pressure of his cock against the zipper of his trousers.

"His- His name was Sam," John stammered.

"Mhmm?"

Sherlock stepped forward so that his body was directly against John's. He could feel John's erection on his leg, and decided to use it as an advantage. He rolled his hip against John's groin, and the man almost lost it right then and there.

"Ng-"

He tried to hide his pleasure at the feeling, but Sherlock knew better.

"Shame you've got a boyfriend," Sherlock replied in mock pity.

"He was j-just some bloke," John replied, "I..."

"Yes?"

"I met him at the bar. When he... when he tried to make a move, I left. Sherlock-"

Sherlock stepped away from him and dropped the entire seductive act.

"Thank you," He said, "That is all I needed to know."

And then he walked off without another word. John watched him leave, and then shifted uncomfortably and growled, annoyed by the realization that Sherlock had tricked him.

...

Christmas- The one day a year that people put aside everything else in order to gather with their friends and families, give away expensive (And most of the time useless) gifts that will be used a few times and then thrown away, and stuff themselves with food. All in celebration of the supposed messiah, Jesus Christ. In other words, some cheap holiday produced by a bunch of Jesus-Freaks for commercial use. At least, that's how the consulting detective liked to sum it up.

Sherlock loved it, though. He didn't participate in the whole Jesus birthday celebration, but he did enjoy the spirits that the holidays brought about. He liked to play violin for John and Mrs. Hudson, and he liked to sit around and enjoy a glass or two of nice wine. He appreciated nice wine. He didn't particularly like the pressure of buying gifts for people, though, and he didn't like dealing with his family. Whenever he had to buy someone a gift, he always had difficulties finding something that he knew they would like. He never really paid any attention to people whenever they would talk about something as insignificant as hobbies or interests, so he didn't ever know what to look for. And then, whenever he had to deal with his family... that was the really hard part. His parents expected him to at least call every year, but they were a couple of the most boring people that he knew. They enjoyed talking about things such as how they had adopted a new pet, or how his mother's best friend Suzie had got a new boyfriend. At least Mycroft didn't bother him. The older Holmes didn't even expect so much as a call from his little brother.

"Sherrrrlawwwwk!"

Sherlock sat up in his chair and looked towards the door. He could hear the sound of John stomping down the stairs, and couldn't help but wonder what he had done to make the older man angry this time. John appeared next to the kitchen, staring furiously at him.

"What is it, John?" Sherlock sighed.

"There's a bloody snake in my bedroom!"

"Where?"

"In my bed!"

Sherlock jumped out of his seat and ran past him, climbing up the stairs two at a time.

"I've been looking _everywhere_ for him," He shouted. John followed him upstairs and into his bedroom. He flipped the light switch and pointed at the long, very intimidating python coiled on his pillow. Sherlock walked over and cautiously grabbed the reptile right behind it's head. He wrapped the animal around his arm, and then walked past John and made his way out of the room, explaining that Hamish had escaped from his cage over a week ago.

"Hamish?"

"Yes. I named him Hamish," Sherlock replied.

"You did not!"

Sherlock looked over at him and grinned antagonistically.

"Yes," He said, "I did."

John stopped walking, and Sherlock turned around to look at him.

"You named your bloody snake Hamish," John replied.

"I find your deductive skills very impressive," Sherlock said sarcasticly. John glared at him.

"You know I hate that name," He seethed.

"I know," Sherlock said, grinning widely. He turned around and sauntered off. He made his way downstairs and into his bedroom, where he put Hamish into a large tank against the far wall of the room. When he came back out of the bedroom, he found that John had made his way downstairs and was sitting on the sofa. He had his arms crossed, and his expression looked very annoyed.

"Stop pouting," Sherlock said.

"Change it," John said.

"Change what?"

"Change his name."

"No."

"_Change it."_

"I like Hamish," Sherlock replied.

"Change it, or else."

"Or else what?"

"I won't give you your gift."

Sherlock cocked his head to the side and looked at his flat mate curiously. John looked up at him and smiled, proving that he wasn't really all that mad. He uncrossed his arms and crossed one leg over the other, pointing towards the christmas tree a few feet away. Sherlock looked over and found that there was a medium-sized box sitting under it. The box was wrapped in a tacky santa design, with a label indicating it was for him. The consulting detective stared at the box, trying to deduce what was in it.

"Are you just going to stare at it?" John asked.

Sherlock looked over at him, smiling sheepishly.

"You didn't have to..."

"Go on," John said, gesturing for him to retrieve it. Sherlock slowly approached the artificial tree and leaned down, grabbing the box. He walked over to his chair and sat down, sitting the box in his lap. John watched enthusiastically as he tore off the wrapping paper and threw it onto the floor. Sherlock opened the box to find several objects wrapped in newspaper inside. He picked up one of the objects and held it in his hand, staring at it for a moment. Then he peeled the newspaper off a glass beaker. He proceeded to unwrap all of the other objects enclosed, unveiling an entire set of chemistry equipment. Sherlock marveled at the sight of it. He held up a graduated cylinder and examined it.

"I know Mrs. Hudson donated most of your old things," John modestly replied, "So I thought you would appreciate some new ones."

Sherlock carefully put the cylinder into the box and picked up a small flask. He stared at the pristine piece of equipment, and then looked up at John, his expression unreadable. He just stared at him, making him slightly uncomfortable.

"Stop doing that," John said.

Still, Sherlock just stared at him.

"Sherlock, quit."

Finally, Sherlock looked down at his flask and gently put it into the box it had came in.

"This is...This is actually very nice."

"Great," John sat forward and grabbed his knees, "I'm glad you like it."

Sherlock carefully put the box on the ground next to his chair and stood up. He fixed his shirt collar and gave John a nod of his head, then he started to walk off. When John asked him where he was going, he said that he would be right back.

"Just stay here," Sherlock said. The doctor gave him a curious look, but did as he was told. He watched Sherlock disappear into his bedroom, and then reappear five minutes later holding a rectangular box that looked as if it had been wrapped professionally. He was surprised when his flat mate walked over and held it out to him.

"Here," Sherlock said.

John took the box from him and looked at the neat wrapping paper and bow, impressed. He looked up at Sherlock, back at the box, and then back up at Sherlock.

"You...you got me something?" He asked, a bit suspiciously.

Sherlock sat down next to him and nodded.

"I was going to give it to you later, but go ahead."

John stared at him for a moment, smiled, and then returned his attention to his gift. He put the box in his lap and carefully peeled the wrapping paper off, revealing his new computer.

"Sherlock..."

"Do you like it?"

John looked up at his friend and stared incredulously at him. He looked down at the gift, up at Sherlock, and then back at the gift. He didn't know what to say.

"This is...This had to be expensive," John replied.

"It was only about 1,000 quid."

"One-!"

John jerked his attention back to Sherlock, his jaw dropped. He stared at the man next to him wide-eyed in disbelief.

"You spent a thousand quid on me?"

"You said you needed a new computer," Sherlock replied.

"That didn't mean you had to buy me a thousand-pound one!"

Sherlock looked down at the computer and frowned.

"Do you not like it?" He asked, fidgeting nervously.

"No- No. It's great. It really is. I just... you shouldn't have spent that much money, Sherlock."

Sherlock simply shrugged. He stood up and walked over and sat down in his own chair, picking up the box of equipment that John had given him.

"I have enough money."

"I guess."

John sat back in his seat and held the computer box up, examining it. He carefully opened the box and pulled out the portable computer inside, flipping it open.

"This is _really_ nice, Sherlock."

He looked over at the consulting detective and smiled. Sherlock smiled back.

"You like it?"

"Yes. Thank you. It was very thoughtful."

Mrs. Hudson made an appearance shortly after that, bearing gifts for both men. Sherlock's was a dark green scarf, and John's was a dark blue jumper. Both were handmade; knitted by the old woman herself. John immediately put the jumper on over his shirt, expressing how much he appreciated it by hugging the landlady. He looked over at Sherlock expectantly, and Sherlock smiled over at Mrs. Hudson.

"Thank you," He politely replied, "It's very... uh... nice."

Sherlock wrapped the scarf around his neck and forged a smile, giving the old woman a thumbs up as his smile widened to the point were it was very obviously fake. John gave him a warning look, and he stopped smiling altogether. Mrs. Hudson squealed with glee, gaining the attention of both men. John looked at her like he thought she was dying, and Sherlock stared at her like she was a mentally handicapped child that was getting on his nerves.

"Oh, you two!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. She held out her arms, and John hugged her again. She looked up at Sherlock and waited for him to join them, but he just stood there and stared dumbly at the old woman, unaware of the fact that he was supposed to be part of the hug. Mrs. Hudson realized his ignorance and quickly gestured for him to join, telling him to get his butt over there before she hit him upside the head. Sherlock hesitantly approached, then he wrapped one arm around John and the other around his landlady.

"I've missed you two," She said. She let go of them, and Sherlock took position next to John.

"Too late for me to join the party?"

John looked back to find Gregory Lestrade standing in the doorway. He was wearing at least three layers of clothing, and still shivering. The doctor gave him a hug and invited him in. Lestrade made his way into the living area and shrugged off the two heavy coats he was wearing. He threw them onto the sofa and sat down, rubbing his biceps in an attempt to keep warm. Sherlock took note of how red-faced he was, wondering how long he had been outside. It was cold, undoubtedly, but still. Lestrade looked like he had been standing in the cold for hours; his face red and blotchy, his ears just as red, his nose runny, and his lip trembling as his cheet chattered.

The consulting detective opened his mouth to say something, but he was cut off when John spoke up.

"So," John said, "How's your holiday, Greg?"

Lestrade looked up at him and gave a lopsided grin, shrugging.

"Nothing special," He said.

Sherlock walked over to the kitchen entryway and leaned against the frame. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and began using it for research, already bored with the direction that the conversation was going in. He zoned out of the situation completely, but everyone else continued to carry on with domestic conversation. Family, relationships.._. Normal people stuff_.

"How's Anderson?"

"He's... Doing better, actually. Ever since he somehow managed to get his job back, he's really turned back into his old self."

"Ah. Doesn't sound good," John jokingly replied. Lestrade laughed. Mrs. Hudson waddled into the kitchen and disappeared. She came back a few moments later.

"What about you," Lestrade said to the old landlady, "How've you been, Mrs. H?"

The woman gave him a cheery smile and patted John's shoulder.

"Better than ever since my boys got back together," She said. John gave her a weary smile. Lestrade looked over at Sherlock, but- as soon as recognizing that the consulting detective was immersed in his mobile- turned his attention back to John.

"How's Harry?" Lestrade asked.

"She's fine. We don't talk much."

"Does she still got that alcohol issue going on?"

John nodded his head dismally. Out of nowhere, his thoughts traced all the way back to the first time that he and Sherlock had worked a case together. The two of them were in a cab, on their way to eat. Sherlock had examined his phone and used it to deduce that John had a brother with alcohol issues and a recent divorce. Sherlock had missed the fact that it wasn't a brother but a sister- Harry being short for Harriet.

"Mrs. Hudson," Lestrade said, "How's the hip?"

"Oh! Lovely of you to ask," She said, "It's doing better, but still isn't too great. Thanks for your concern, darling."

The old woman gave Lestrade a sweet smile. He smiled back. John looked over at Sherlock and noticed the concerned look on his face. He walked over to him and asked him if something was wrong. Sherlock shoved his mobile back into his pocket and dismissed it as nothing. Then Mrs. Hudson let out another unorthodox squeal,alarming everyone in the room. John and Lestrade both winced, rubbing their ears and making sure that they're hearing still worked.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock scolded.

The old woman looked at him and giggled, pointing to the mistletoe lining the top of the door frame hanging just above his head. Sherlock looked up at the dangling plant, and then down at Mrs. Hudson. He just stared at her, furrowing his brow. Seeing that he was confused, Mrs. Hudson explained the tradition of two people standing under mistletoe during Christmas. Sherlock then craned his neck to look over at John, who had turned as red as a tomato.

"That," John said as he jabbed a finger at the mistletoe, "Is holly. It isn't misteltoe, it's holly. And I just put it there for festivity."

"No," Sherlock said, "It's mistletoe, you dimwit. Holly has red berries. This-" Sherlock pointed up at the mistletoe but kept his eyes glued to John, "-Has white berries."

John looked up at the mistletoe, back at Sherlock, and then over at Mrs. Hudson. He chuckled awkwardly, taking a nervous step away from Sherlock.

"Oh, you've gotta stick with tradition." Mrs. Hudson said.

"No I don't," John said with a nervous smile.

"For the spirit of Christmas," Mrs. Hudson urged.

"You can't seriously expect him to kiss Sherlock," Lestrade said. He looked over at Mrs. Hudson, and she looked down at him.

"Well, why not, dear? I'm sure they've done it plenty of time befo-"

"Mrs. Hudson!" John yelled, "I've told you several times that I'm not-"

Suddenly, Sherlock grabbed John by the arm and pulled him over to the doorway, kissing him right then and there. It was just a quick kiss on the lips, and then the consulting detective let go of him. Mrs. Hudson stared at them, marveling in the beautiful romance before her. She clapped her hands together and cheered, bouncing like an excited child. Lestrade's gaped, and his eyes widened. He squeezed his eyes shut, and then opened them again, trying to make sure he hadn't just hallucinated that entire scene. The DI opened his mouth to ask smething, but Sherlock interrupted him.

"Yes, Lestrade, I am gay. Deal with it."

Mrs. Hudson's smile widened.

"Oh, quit your bloody grinning!" John snapped. The old woman looked quite startled by his sudden reaction. John immediately apologized.

"I'm not... Me and Sherlock aren't... I mean..."

"I think what John's trying to say," Sherlock said, "Is that he and I aren't dating. We aren't what you would call a couple. I'm not really sure what our relationship is. I find these types of things confusing, and am unable to sort it all out myself, but the last time I attempted to have the discussion with him, he wouldn't have it. So, I guess you could say it's quite comlicated."

"You mean like... friends with benefits?" Lestrade asked. He leaned forward in his seat and looked up at Sherlock, genuinely curious.

"What does that mean?" Sherlock asked.

"No!" John yelled, "Absolutely not. We're not- no, we don't have- we haven't-just, no. That isn't at all what it is."

His face had turned bright red by then. He turned to Sherlock for some help, but the consulting detective just stared down at him with a smug grin plastered on his face.


	7. Time to Run

It was two days after Christmas when Sherlock finally noticed something that he had completely overlooked when working undercover for Mycroft. He was sitting in his chair, staring off into space, when John came in and interrupted doctor asked him if he had seen his work ID. Sherlock snapped at him for interrupting his train of thought, and then started shouting at him. He abruptly fell silent as he came to realize something.

"I just asked if you knew where my bleeding ID-"

John stopped before finishing his sentence, realizing that Sherlock had already tuned out. He rolled his eyes, and then started to walk off. Before he had a chance to leave the room, Sherlock jumped out of his chair, ran over to him, and grabbed him by the arm. He dragged John downstairs and put his coat on.

"Sherlock, I- Hey, what are you-!"

"You definitely aren't the brightest man I know," Sherlock said.

"Oh. Thanks," John sarcastically replied.

"But you're brilliant, John!"

Sherlock finished buttoning his coat and ran outside. John just stood there, staring at the door with a perplexed look on his face. Then the door swung open again, and Sherlock reappeared.

"Well? Are you coming?"

"Oh!"

John grabbed his coat and hastily put it on, zipping it up. Sherlock grabbed him by the arm and pulled him outside, then started running down the street until he saw the familiar style of a taxi approaching. He jumped into the street and waved the vehicle down. After the car came to an abrupt stop, Sherlock jumped into the back seat and ordered the cabbie to take him to Scotland Yard. John scrambled into the vehicle, and it started moving before he even had a chance to close the door. He almost fell out, but Sherlock caught him.

"Jesus!" John exclaimed. He quickly grabbed the door and slammed it shut, then he looked over at Sherlock and asked him what in the world was so important that the consulting detective found it necessary to pull him out of the flat, drag him down the street, put him into a taxi and nearly kill him for.

"I've just had an epiphany," Sherlock replied.

"What?"

"I just realized that three of the men in question had reported their work ID missing or stolen around the time that Mycroft was dealing with security issues. I need to go down to Scotland Yard and call Mycroft."

"Wait, Sherlock-"

"Yes?"

"What does three men reporting their ID missing have to do with anything?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You're so slow," He replied.

"I just don't get it."

"I know. Yes. But if you were to know all of the details, you'd probably understand. Most likely not. Like I said, you aren't very smart. Anyways, I've been looking into the lives of several different men who work for Mycroft. I knew that one of them was working for Moriarty- or in this case three- being paid off to look the other way while someone snuck into government business. I've looked very thoroughly, but I haven't been able to find anything. It didn't strike me as odd until just now, but three out of the ten men in question have reported their ID missing or stolen around the time that someone broke into Mycroft's building. In other words, those men most likely lent their ID to whoever it was that was breaking in. That's how the person managed to get in without being noticed. They'd just have to wear a fake uniform- which isn't too difficult to get ahold of- and then the ID would complete the disguise."

"Alright..." John said, as if he understood. He didn't really. He had gotten lost when Sherlock had mentioned Moriarty.

"Of course, nobody would get caught, because there would still be the guards to vouch for them. And when the car blew up, we wouldn't even need a third party. One of the usuals could simply slip back and flip a switch!"" Sherlock exclaimed. John smiled, surprised to see him so happy to finish a case.

"You look happy," John said.

"I've been on this case way too long," Sherlock replied, "I'll be more than happy to finish it."

"Right. Say, why do we have to go down to Scotland Yard to call Mycroft?"

"My brother seems to believe that my mobile may have been tapped."

"I have one," John replied.

"Just as likely that your mobile's also been tapped," Sherlock said.

"What? Why would my mobile have been tapped?"

"Moriarty. This case has to do with Moriarty, remember?"

"Yes, but M...I mean... he does have other things to do besides bother us. Just because this case-"

"This case also has to deal with you," Sherlock replied.

"Okay, maybe he really does use you to occupy all of his time," John muttered.

"Yes. And frankly, I'm tired of it."

"You seem like your enjoying yourself," John said.

"Yes, but that's just because I've got a case to follow. I don't like it, however, when someone hurts my friend in order to get to me."

The taxi came to a stop and Sherlock stepped out before John had a chance to respond. The doctor was left paying for the fare- as usual. He gave the driver the necessary amount of money, and then he stepped out of the car and followed Sherlock into the nearby building.

"One thing I don't get," John said as he struggled to keep up, "Is why the men who worked for Mycroft wouldn't have just stolen the information or whatever themselves."

"Don't be ridiculous. None of those men would have done something so risky when getting caught would have meant being charged with treason. They would want a certain degree of secrecy, which means a third party would have to be involved. That way, the intruder would get caught instead of them if anything went awry."

"Well yes," John said, "But they've still failed to remain anonymous."

Sherlock walked up to a random officer's desk and sat own in the chair, reaching for the landline sitting on the desk. He dialed Mycroft's number and listened as the dial tone rang.

"They didn't expect someone as brilliant as myself to get involved," Sherlock smugly replied. John chuckled, rolling his eyes.

"Holmes speaking. Who is this?"

"I've got what you wanted," Sherlock replied.

There was a pause, and then:

"I'm listening."

"I'll meet you at Speedy's," Sherlock replied. He hung up, and then he jumped out of the chair and ran past John. John stared at the landline for a lingering moment, thinking that all of this was a lot of trouble to go through just to relay some information. Then Sherlock called for him, and he spun around and ran after his friend. Sherlock led him outside, they looked around for a taxi, and then- after failing to find one- they started to walk back to Baker Street.

"We really need a car," Sherlock said.

"No," John said, "We don't."

"Oh, shut up. Just because I wrecked the last one-"

"It was my bloody vehicle. I didn't even tell you that you could borrow it!"

"It was the brakes," Sherlock then side-stepped in front of John and waived down an oncoming taxi.

"C'mon," Sherlock said as the car stopped next to them. The taller stepped into the vehicle and shut the door. John ran around and got in on the other side, quickly shutting the door beside him before he had another near-death experience like the last time.

"221b Baker Street," Sherlock said to the driver.

"It wasn't the brakes," John argued as the vehicle began to make it's way back to their street. Sherlock looked over at him and rolled his eyes.

"Of course it was," Sherlock retorted.

"No," John firmly replied, "It wasn't. You were high as a kite, Sherlock."

"Oh, not with this again..."

"If I ever catch you like that again-"

"I wasn't even on anything!"

"That's not what Lestrade said."

"Lestrade can go-"

"Here we are," Interrupted the driver. He pulled up in front of the flat, and John handed him the fare. Sherlock yanked John out of the car and dragged him over to the cafe next door to the flat, where they waited for fifteen minutes before Mycroft arrived. Sherlock was about to leave at the fifteen minute mark, he had even started towards the door. But then Mycroft entered the building, nearly knocking him over with the glass door. He gave Sherlock a sour smile, and then promptly ordered him to tell of what he had found. Sherlock looked around to make sure that nobody was within hearing distance, and then he turned to his older sibling and discreetly whispered something in his ear. Mycroft nodded, bid him a good day, and then left.

Of course, John found the entire situation quite amusing. After all, his flat mate had dragged him all the way to Scotland Yard just to make a call, then brought him all the way back and sat inside of Speedy's for several minutes just so he could relay a five- second long message to his brother. The secrecy about it was truly... absurd.

"Well," John said, "That was a bit..."

"Anti-climatic," Sherlock finished for him.

"Not quite the word I was looking for," John replied.

"Oh?"

"Sherlock," He looked up at his flat mate, "You just dragged me out to Scotland Yard and back just to say something to Mycroft and have him leave without even a thanks."

"It's Mycroft. Do you really expect him to act grateful?"

"Well, he should be. I mean- Er... it's beside the point, Sherlock. I mean, why couldn't you have done all of this without dragging me along?"

"Don't be so daft, John. You know-"

Sherlock looked down to find him smirking, and it caught him off guard. He abruptly stopped talking and arched an eyebrow curiously,

"What?" He asked.

"You're about to give me that 'I just take you with me so I don't look crazy talking to a skull' excuse, aren't you?"

"So you understand."

John rolled his eyes and laughed. He then walked past Sherlock and made his way outside, subconsciously hugging himself as he stepped into the cold. Sherlock followed him.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"You're such a bluff," John said.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You and I both know why you really drag me around."

John unlocked the front door to the flat and pushed it open. He walked inside and hung his coat up, then he made his way up the stairs. Sherlock did the same, following him through the kitchen and into the living area.

"What are you implying?" Sherlock asked.

"We've gone through this before, Sherlock."

John sat down on the sofa, kicked off his shoes, and then swung his feet onto the small piece of furniture and laid down. He crossed his arms under his head and looked over at Sherlock, smiling at his confusion.

"After all," John replied, "You did make the first move."

Sherlock squinted at him, and then his eyes widened as he realized what his flat mate was referring to.

"You-! _That_ has nothing to do with this."

"Doesn't it?"

Sherlock blushed- one of the only times that John had actually seen his face turn so red for reasons other than frustration or anger. The consulting detective sat down in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest, huffing.

"Unrelated."

"Bluffing."

"I'm serious, John."

"No you're not."

"I already told you-"

"Sherlock Holmes has a big, obvious crush on his flat mate," John teased, "And he's too shy to admit it."

"I don't have to _admit_ anything," Sherlock muttered, "We snogged in the bloody kitchen. I think it's relatively obvious."

"That," John said, "Was different. I mean, there's a big difference between finding someone sexually attractive and actually having feelings for them."

"Who said I find you sexually attractive?" Sherlock asked, grinning mischievously.

John sat up, cleared his throat, and then quoted something that Sherlock had once told him.

_"I've never had a relationship before_," John mocked, "_But I do find myself attracted to you, John Watson_."

"Yeah, well I-"

"If you think about it," John continued, "It sort of sounds like a cheesy pick up line from a pornographic film."

"Oh shut up," Sherlock snapped.

"Have I gone and embarrassed you?"

"It wasn't supposed to sound like that," Sherlock whined, "I just didn't know how to tell you- how to admit that-that I..."

Sherlock leaned forward and groaned, cupping his face in his hands. He dragged his hands down his face, and then dropped them into his lap, looking up at John with a miserable expression on his face. He sat back in his seat and muttered something under his breath. John sat forward and strained to hear him.

"What was that?" Asked the doctor.

Sherlock repeated himself, but John still couldn't hear him.

"What?"

"I said," Sherlock loudly repeated, "I enjoy your company, and... I, you know... I like when you're close." John laid back down on the sofa and crossed one leg over the other. He crossed his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling, letting out a sigh. Sherlock muttered something inaudible again.

John craned his neck to look over at him.

"Huh?"

"Nothing."

"Why is it that you have these random outbursts of being social or seductive, but when I actually want you to talk to me you clam up?"

"I'm not good at this!"

"You-"

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson called from downstairs, "You've got a visitor!"

Sherlock abruptly stopped talking and looked towards the stairwell with a perplexed expression on his face. John sat up and asked him who it was.

"Who's at the door?" He asked.

"I don't know."

There was a loud thud, Mrs. Hudson screamed, and then there were two sets of obnoxious footsteps coming up the stairs.

Within moments, Sherlock and John were being held at gunpoint.

"Which one of you is John Watson?"

Sherlock glanced towards the door, considering making a run for it. He couldn't just leave John behind.

"I said, John Watson."

John looked over at the man who had repeated his request. He was slightly shorter than the man accompanying him. His head was shaved, revealing a large tattoo on the side of his scalp.

"What do you want?" John asked. He looked from one man to the other, and then over at Sherlock. Sherlock looked back at him with a confident expression that told him that everything would be okay. John nodded, then turned back to the men currently holding them hostage. He opened his mouth to say something, but didn't have a chance.

Sherlock jumped out of his chair and grabbed the iron shovel hanging next to the hearth. Without hesitation, he swung it at one of the intruders, who fell on the ground unconscious. The other man raised his gun, but Sherlock managed to hit him in the shin with his makeshift weapon before he had a chance to shoot.

"Let's go!" Sherlock yelled. He ran off, and John followed him. The two of them made it outside, and then they took a hasty turn and broke into a sprint.


	8. And so the Chase Begins

The temperature outside was in the negatives. Neither man had been able to retrieve a coat before leaving the flat, and they were both wearing relatively thin clothes. Sherlock had on a nice dress shirt and trousers, as usual. John was wearing a long-sleeved v-neck and a nice pair of jeans. Despite the long sleeves and thick bottoms, both men were shivering by the time they made it to the end of their street.

Sherlock stopped at the intersection and hugged himself, rubbing his biceps in an attempt to keep warm. John hugged himself and looked up at the older man, expecting some sort of explanation. Sherlock just looked down at him and shrugged. The consulting detective had absolutely no idea what was going on. He knew that these men didn't work for Mycroft- neither was wearing the proper uniform or carrying the correct handgun.

"Sherlock," John said, trying to get his flat mate's attention.

"I don't know who they are. This has all happened so suddenly. They could simply be someone I pissed off, I do manage to piss of quite a few people. But why would they want you?"

"Sherlock!"

The consulting detective looked down at John, and then followed his gaze down the street to find that their new friends had already managed to regain themselves, and were now running after them. The one that Sherlock had hit in the head with a shovel was considerably farther behind than the other, which did give them a bit of an advantage.

"Run," Sherlock would have waited for them to approach and fought back, but he didn't have a weapon on him. Even though he really wanted to know who they were, he didn't want to risk John's safety in the process of finding out.

So he decided to run. He gestured for John to follow, and then ran off down the street intersecting with Baker Street. He made it to the end of that street, and then he made a left and continued to run. He took a shortcut through a nearby cafe- running through the dining area, into the kitchen, and through the back door. Then he ended up in an alley. After making sure that John was still with him, he casually walked out onto the sidewalk. Before he had a chance to deflect, someone threw the butt of a gun into his head.

Fortunately, the attack wasn't blunt enough to knock him out. It did hurt, though.

"F-ugh!"

Sherlock collapsed onto his knees and grabbed his head, looking up to find the man he had attacked with an iron shovel was looming over him with gun in hand, giving him a satisfied smile.

"Don't feel to good," He said, "Does it?"

Sherlock just scowled.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?" John asked. Even though he was being held at gunpoint, his worry was still focused on his flat mate. Sherlock looked over at him and nodded, grimacing.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked. He looked from one of the unfamiliar man to the other.

The one holding John at gunpoint was slightly shorter than the other. The tattoo on the side of his scalp was a spider in a web; It stretched from his ear to the back of his head. His eyes were a dark brown, but the color wasn't natural. He was wearing contacts, which meant that he was deliberately trying to hide his identity. Look closely, and you'd notice that part of the spiderweb inked into his scalp was darker than the rest. Look even closer, and you'd realize that it was because the web had been put there to hide the swastika that had previously been there. It was a prison tattoo.

Sherlock eyeballed the spots on his face that were relatively lighter than the rest of his skin. Just below his eyes, there were three small tattoos that had been removed. Tear drops. Several different gangs wore tear drop tattoos to signify how many people they had killed. So he was a murderer. He'd been in prison at one point, but now he was out. Escapee? No. He had tried to cover up his past by hiding and removing tattoos, which meant that he was trying to clean up his act. He wasn't doing a very good job at that. After all, he was holding a man at gunpoint.

"None of your damn business," The bald man barked.

Sherlock looked over at the taller man, quickly scanning him from head to toe. Unlike the man he had come with, this man didn't have any criminal records. He kept himself clean-shaven, dressed nicely, didn't have any tattoos. He wore glasses, which were actually prescription necessary for him to see. The magnification in his glasses meant that he was legally blind without them.

The tan mark on his left-hand ring finger suggested that he had been married; recently divorced. He still has visitation rights with his children. The fingerpaint on the bottom hem of his shirt suggests that they're relatively young.

"I'm only going to ask one more time," The bald one said, "Which one of you's John Watson?"

"I wonder how long it's going to take your parole officer to find you?" Sherlock asked. He looked up at the short, bald man and stared intensely at him. The man furrowed his brow and stared at him, clearly confused.

"You're house-arrest anklet has been blinking for several minutes, which means that you've stepped outside of your boundaries. Seeing that you've just gotten out of prison, I'm sure your parole officer won't be very lenient with you. You didn't really think this through, did you? And as for you," Sherlock looked over at the taller man and smiled sourly, "I'm sure your ex-wife won't be very pleased when you get arrested because his parole officer finds you and him both carrying guns. In fact, she'll probably want to take away visitation rights. You'd be too dangerous to let hang around a young child."

"I'll take it you're Sherlock Holmes," The tall man replied.

"Yes, I am. And if you've heard of me, then you're well aware of what I am capable of doing to you if you harm my friend."

John yelped, and Sherlock jerked his attention over to find that he had been grabbed. The consulting detective jumped up and took a step towards the man holding him, but froze as soon as John's captor raised a gun at him.

"Leave him alone," Sherlock growled, glaring at the man.

"If you're Sherlock, then this must be John."

"Let go of him," Sherlock demanded.

"I only take orders from my boss," The man replied. Sherlock glared at him.

"So this is Moriarty's doing," Sherlock said. The man holding John shrugged. Sherlock looked around, hoping that somebody nearby would see them and call the police. Unfortunately, he wasn't that lucky. The street was barren, everyone inside; hiding from the cold.

Speaking of which, he couldn't feel his face. He was beginning to lose feeling in his fingers,too, and his chest was cold.

"What does he want?" Sherlock barked. Nobody answered him, and he was becoming increasingly impatient, so he decided to fight back.

John watched as his flat mate kicked the taller assailant's knee cap. The man collapsed onto the ground, and Sherlock grabbed his glasses, throwing them at the man holding John. It created just enough of a distraction for Sherlock to hit the gun out of his hand, and then Sherlock jumped back and grabbed the gun from the taller man.

"Let him go."

Sherlock held the gun pointed at the bald man, glaring at him. He hesitated, but then he let go of John and took a cautious step backwards, holding his hands up. His accomplice was behind Sherlock, franticly patting the ground in search of his glasses. Without them, all that he could see were blurry shapes.

"I'll take care of this," Sherlock said to John, "You can go."

John gave him a skeptical look.

"Go," Sherlock demanded. His flat mate nodded, and then started to walk off. Unexpectedly, Sherlock's ankle was grabbed the taller man, and Sherlock was pulled onto the ground. The gun flew out of his hand, skid across the frozen ground, and stopped right at the feet of the short man.

"John, run!" Sherlock yelled.

John glanced back to find the short man running after him, gun in hand. He quickly turned and started running, taking a sharp turn at the end of the street. He nearly slipped, but caught himself on a car. He then continued to sprint down the sidewalk.

John turned into an alley and broke into a sprint, running down the length of clammy darkness until he made his way onto another street. He took a right turn and ran down the street until meeting with an intersection. He stopped, glanced back to see if he was still being followed, and then- after realizing that he had finally managed to lose the man who had been chasing him- he bent over and grabbed his knees, panting.

He'd barely had time to catch his breath before his pursuer rounded the corner and found him again.

"Found him!"

John sprang up. He turned and started running again, cursing inwardly as his knees began to feel weak. He was exhausted; his legs threatening to collapse underneath him.

"C'mon," He said to himself. He grabbed his side and glanced back again. His insides were cramping. His lungs felt like they were on fire, and every breath he took made his throat burn.

"C'mon," He reiterated, encouraging himself to keep running. He didn't know what would happen to him if he was caught, but he knew that whoever was chasing him had been hired by Moriarty. As long as it had to do with that sick bastard, John wanted absolutely no part in it.

The doctor took a sharp turn into another alley and slipped on a patch of ice, falling sideways into the brick of the building next to him. He struggled to stand up, and then he started running again. Suddenly, someone appeared at the end of the alley. John stopped mid-stride and spun around. He started running back the way that he had came, but the man who had been chasing him was already at the other end.

"Shit."

John looked at the tall, thin man who had suddenly appeared, and then over at the short bald man who had been chasing him. He then realized that he was trapped between them.

"Oh, you've got to be..." John muttered to himself. He anxiously looked around for an exit; some way out. A door, a ladder, anything...

Unfortunately, it didn't seem like there was one.

"There has to be," John said to himself, "C'mon, think."

He stood there for a moment, glancing in either direction. Neither of the men moved. They just stood at either end of the alley, patiently waiting for him to give in and go with them.

"Come on, Doctor Watson. We don't want to hurt you."

John looked over at the taller man and glared.

"Sure you don't," He sarcastically replied.

Just think. What would Sherlock do?

John kept looking around for some form of escape, but it really seemed as if he had finally lost. The alley was a short stretch of pavement, clear of any doors or windows. There were no ladders or pipes on either of the buildings. There were no manholes.

Think.

Both men began to make their way towards him. John could feel his heart rate increase.

Think.

He nervously glanced in both directions. The men were getting closer with each passing second. He had nowhere to go. He didn't even have a weapon. How was he going to get out of this?

Dammit. Where the hell was Sherlock?

The taller one grabbed for him and he jerked away. He took a few steps back and walked directly into the other man, who made haste to wrap an arm around him and hold him still. Before John had time to react, his captor held a rag over his lips. John gasped, inhaling the chemical being held against his mouth, and he gagged. He tried to wriggle free of the man's grasp, but he suddenly felt very weak. His body gave in, his eyes slipped shut, and he fell unconscious within seconds.

When he woke up, everything was dark. He opened his eyes and looked around, but he couldn't see anything. He was laying down, there was carpet underneath him... that much he knew. His hands were tied together underneath him. His legs were kept together with duct tape wrapped just below his knees.

Suddenly, the floor moved underneath him. His head smacked into something above him.

"Unf!"

That was when he realized where he was- the trunk of a car. It explained the small amount of space, the darkness. He could just barely hear the sound of other vehicles driving nearby.

"Hey!" He yelled, thankful that he hadn't been gagged. Nobody responded, of course. He yelled again- louder- and kicked the hood of the trunk. Still, nothing. Then he screamed at the top of his lungs, kicking the hood of the trunk repeatedly. Somebody hit the back seat and told him to shut up.

"Let me out of here!" John demanded.

Someone laughed, making him even angrier.

"Do you have any idea who you're messing with?" He replied, trying his best to remain calm and sound as threatening as possible. Nobody replied. There was another bump in the road, and John was sent rolling onto his stomach. His head smacked against the side of the car, and he yelped.

"Let me out of this damn car!" John exclaimed.

The vehicle sped up, took a sharp turn, and then stopped. Several agonizingly suspenseful seconds passed, and then the trunk opened, and all that John could make out was a dark figure reaching for him. He took note of the fact that the sun had already set, and the moon was shining in the clear sky above him.

"Piss off!" John yelled, wriggling away from the man trying to grab him. His attempt proved futile. The man pulled him out of the car and lifted him onto his feet.

"You're coming with me," He said, "Either way. I can put a gun to your head and make you, or you can just make it easier for us both and cooperate."


	9. Distraction

John wasn't going to make it easy. He knew the likelihood of his actually escaping the circumstances was very slim, but he didn't care. He had been forced into submission once before, and he wasn't going to let it happen again. He could be dragged, or carried, but he definitely wasn't going to just give up and go with it. He was going to kick and scream the entire time. He was going to thrash around like a banshee, wriggle like a toddler, or flop around like a fish if necessary. Anything he could do to make his abductor's day any more difficult, he'd do it.

And he did.

He refused to go willingly, so the bloke pointed a gun at him and told him to do as he was told. John stared at the weapon with a blank expression for a moment, and then he slowly brought his gaze up to the man's face and gave him a look of utter bemusement.

"No," He replied. to his surprise, it had actually came out as confidently as he had hoped.

"Excuse me? I'm the one holding a bloody gun. Go. Or I'll shoot you."

"Shoot me."

"What?"

"I said," John replied, "Shoot me."

The man just stared at him, confused and rather unsure of what to do with himself. Obviously, he wasn't going to shoot him. He had been given direct orders to deliver him alive.

"I thought so," John said.

"I'm not playing games here. I _will_ shoot you."

He waved his gun around dramatically, but John didn't seem effected by it.

"If you wanted to shoot me, you would have done it by now."

"You want me to?"

"I've faced much worse than a gun before," John proclaimed rather proudly.

John stared up at the man and locked gazes with him. They both just stood there, staring intensely at each other for what had to be at least a solid minute before the man with a gun dropped his weapon and let out a sigh. He grabbed for John, and John jumped away. He lost his balance due to the tape around his legs, fell backwards, and smacked his head on the ground.

"Buggerin'..."

"Calm down," The man replied. He leaned over and picked John up, slinging him over his shoulder as if he weighed nothing. John wriggled around and kicked his legs, but nothing seemed to deter the man carrying him. He tried calling out for help, but nobody was going to hear him. The streets were dark and barren; everyone sound asleep in there homes by then.

"You...bloody..." John grumbled, "Sherlock won't let you..._dammit_!"

John tried smacking his head into the man's back, but it only succeeded in giving him a headache.

"Oh, bugger. F- _let me down_!"

He was carried into a dark old building, where he was then taken down a long corridor. He tried to make out his surroundings, but it was too dark to see anything other than the dark outlines of unknown objects. John squinted. He was relatively sure they had just passed a door with a small placard on it that read Laboratory. He furrowed his brow and looked around for any more clues.

Were they in an abandoned lab?

"Where are we?" He asked, suddenly calming down. There was no answer. Realizing that there were much more important things at hand, John starting thrashing around again.

"Stop," Was all that the man carrying him said. Then he brought John over to a room, sit him on a small desk against the far corner, and told him to behave himself. John opened his mouth to retort, but the man turned and began to walk off before he had a chance to say anything.

"Hey! What the-"

The stranger walked out of the room and slammed the door shut. John listened closely to the sound of the door locking, and then he screamed.

"_Hey_!"

There was no response. The man had left. John was all alone, in the middle of an abandoned laboratory (_or whatever it was_) in the middle of the night. He didn't know why he was there, or how long he was expected to stay there. What he did know was that it was really cold, and his head was throbbing. His nose was runny, and his cheeks were numb. He could feel his heart beating against his ribcage, slowing down as the adrenaline started to leave his body.

"Bloody hell," He said aloud to himself.

He looked around the room for an escape. The door was locked. The nearby wall was lined with windows, but he wouldn't be able to open them with his hands tied behind his back. The vent on the far wall was much too small for him to fit through.

Out of nowhere, there was a small shuffling sound coming from the corner of the room. John looked over in its direction, but dismissed it as some small animal who resided there. He turned his attention back to the task at hand, searching for anything that may be useful for cutting himself free. He still couldn't see anything, though. The only light provided was that cast through the windows from the moon.

John jumped off of the table, carefully steadying himself. First of all, he needed to get the damned tape off of his legs.

"Hello, Johnny."

John spun around and looked back towards the corner where the shuffling noise had come from. He expected to see a lean, slightly-taller-than-him dark figure approach, but there was nobody to be seen.

"Sorry about this," The familiar voice said, "I know it's a bit sudden, but you understand, right?"

"Wh- what do you want?" John asked, a small tremble in his voice. He looked around the room for Moriarty.

"I'm not in the room, in case you were wondering. I'm communicating through the speaker!"

John looked up at a small dark box built into the wall, glaring at it. Moriarty started to shout a cheerful mock announcement through the speaker, making John want to crawl out of his skin.

"Good morning!" Moriarty said, "Jim here, with your morning announcements! Tonight's forecast: Slightly cloudy with a chance of blood. Now onto John, with the news."

The maniac paused for dramatic effect, letting out a sigh. John just stared at the speaker, expecting him to say more. There were several minutes of silence, and then Moriarty shouted more absurd nonsense into the speaker. His sudden outburst startled the doctor, who nearly fell over.

"Now time for a game," Moriarty said, "Oh, I do love to play a game."

"Piss off!" John yelled at the speaker. He hadn't thought that Moriarty could hear him.

"Oh," Moriarty replied, "Such dirty words coming out of that lovely mouth of yours. Perhaps we ought to find a better use for that mouth. How's that sound, John?"

John fell silent, grimacing.

"Thought so," Moriarty replied after a few seconds of silence ensued.

"Now c'mon, Johnny boy...Don't be rude. I set this all up, just for you. It's a bit last-minute, of course, but, well... I need a distraction."

"What do you want?" John reiterated.

"Let's see how well Doctor Watson is under pressure."

Moriarty fell silent, leaving John confused. John had no idea what he had meant by that, or what he was supposed to do. Fortunately, Moriarty wasn't finished speaking. After a few seconds of silence, his voice came back on the loud speaker.

"You've got eleven minutes to give me an answer. Now listen closely, because I won't repeat myself."

"Wait, wha-"

"I want you to think very hard, Doctor Watson. Here's a bit of a riddle for you. If you answer it correctly, I'll let you go."

John didn't answer, but Moriarty continued, anyway.

"Under pressure is the only way I work," Moriarty said, "By myself is the only way that I'm hurt."

John's eyes widened in disbelief. He stared incredulously at the speaker for several seconds, and then he realized that he was still being timed. He didn't know whether or not Moriarty truly had the intentions of freeing him if he got the riddle correct- he assumed the he wouldn't actually let him go- but he didn't really want to think of what kind of repercussions were in place if he didn't cooperate.

"Have you ever heard it?" Moriarty asked,clearly amused with himself.

"No," Was John's reply.

"Perfect! Time starts now."

Moriarty tuned out, and John was left alone in the silence once more. He found himself standing there, digging deep into his mind for any clues. Unfortunately, his brain didn't work like Sherlock's. He didn't know over 240 types of ash, and he didn't have a mind palace full of random facts pertaining to old cases and relevant news articles. He wasn't even that intelligent.

He had been smart enough to get a medical degree, but his IQ definitely didn't compare to that of the world's only consulting criminal.

"I don't know," He grumbled to himself. He franticly looked around the room, and then he hopped over to the nearby wall and leaned on it, trying his best to keep balanced. He used his shoulder to knock off the outside of the pencil sharpener built into the wall, and then used the blade inside to cut through the binding around his wrists. It took five minutes altogether, but eventually he was able to get his arms free. He then bent over and quickly unwrapped the tape around his legs. He stood up and rubbed the welts that had formed on his wrists, then he ran over to a window and tried to open it.

After the window failed to open, he grabbed a chair and threw it into the glass. Surprisingly, the metal chair just hit the window with a loud thud, and then it fell to the floor and clattered against the old tile.

"I did say this was sudden," Moriarty replied, "But that doesn't mean there wasn't thought put into it. The windows have been replaced. It won't work. Oh, and you've got seven minutes left."

"Dammit!" John shouted.

John picked the chair up and threw it across the room for good measure. He stared at it for a second, and then collapsed onto his knees and sat on the ground.

"Only work under pressure," he muttered to himself, "I can only hurt myself..."

Was this some kind of self-evaluation? Was Moriarty trying to trick him? John knew he could be a bit rash sometimes. He definitely enjoyed the pressure of living with Sherlock. His own emotions toyed with him sometimes...

"Is it me?" John asked.

"Nope. Nice try though. Not a bad guess, actually."

John fell silent. He sat down on his posterior and crossed his legs, rubbing his biceps in an attempt to warm up. The building was considerably warmer than it was outside, but it was still cold. John was shivering.

"Can I get a hint?" He asked, hopeful.

"No cheating," was Moriarty's reply. "Six minutes," he added.

John was running out of time, and fast.

"Bloody...alright. What only works under pressure? Pressure. Pressurized. Push it together to make something."

John closed his eyes and tried to focus. It seemed to help Sherlock whenever he was in a rut. Perhaps it would work for him, too.

"What can only hurt itself? Emotional teenagers?"

John took a deep breath and dug deeper into his mind for clues. He tried not to think about what could happen to him if he failed to answer the riddle correctly.

"People," John muttered under his breath, "People hurt themselves. They don't only work under pressure,though . Put pressure on a wound to keep the blood flow at a minimum. An injury could cause another injury, I suppose. If you have an injury, it could cause an infection. Infection could spread and cause more injury."

"That's not it," Moriarty interrupted, "Three minutes."

"Dammit!"

John opened his eyes and stared at the wall opposite of him.

"What only works under pressure? Bones? No. Rocks? Can rocks hurt themselves? A rock could break another rock, I suppose. Is it a rock?"

"Getting closer."

"A specific type of rock?"

"I said no hints."

John stood up and gave the speaker his middle finger, telling Moriarty he could go fuck himself. He was tired of playing these stupid games. He didn't know the answer. He was absolutely clueless. Infuriated, he flipped the nearby desk over, kicked the wall, and then he grabbed a chunk of debris off the ground and raised it as if he were about to throw it. Out of nowhere, he realized what the answer was.

"It's a diamond," He whispered. Then more loudly: "A diamond!"

Moriarty applauded him.

"Not too bad, Doctor. You're getting better at this."

"But you're not going to let me out," John said.

"Of course not."

John let out a sigh, dropped the piece of trash he had picked up, and then leaned against the wall and distressfully glided his hand down his face. He looked up at the speaker and glared at it for a while, then he diverted his gaze downward and hugged himself.

"What will it take to get me out of here?" John asked.

"There are a couple of different ways you could earn your freedom," Moriarty said. John knew exactly what he was referring to just by the tone of his voice, and he definitely wasn't about to participate in such an act. He'd rather rot away in an abandoned building.

"I won't let you," he said.

"Your unwillingness didn't deter me last time, Johnny. You really think it would work this time?"

"Piss off."

"Oh, darling, you are just so hot when you get defensive. Quite frankly, I find it arousing."

"I said piss off, y_ou bloody twat_!"

John was now practically screaming at the speaker, furious. He'd had enough of Moriarty's mind games. He was tired, and hungry, and cold, and if he could get his hands on the man, he'd strangle him.

"My," Moriarty replied, "I don't think I've ever heard you get so mad. You'll have to stop that, John. The erection you're giving me makes it hard for me to resist myself..."

John opened his mouth as if to retort, but quickly decided against it. He glared daggers at the speaker, but didn't say anything.

"Well," Moriarty replied, "You've made it quite difficult for me to focus...but this is a new suit, and I'd hate to get it dirty. All well."

John rolled his eyes, feeling his way around the room. Simply curious, he began to go through cupboards and desks. He was sort of hoping that he'd find something useful, but knew it was unlikely. By the looks of it, this room had been abandoned for several years. Whatever any wild animals hadn't chewed up, adventurous teenagers would have found and destroyed. It was surprising that the desks were in the relatively clean condition that they were. Moriarty probably had to do with that.

"Aw, don't shut up now," Moriarty whined, "We're merely beginning to have fun. Listen up, John. I've got another riddle for you."

John looked back at the speaker and just stared at it. He figured, if Moriarty had wanted to harm him he would have done it by now. And the man didn't have any intentions of making a personal appearance, he had said so himself; He didn't want to get his suit dirty.

"I'm not going to listen," John firmly replied, "So just leave me alone. Actually, I'd love to know why I'm here."

"Just passing the time, Johnny."

"Passing the time?" John sat down on a desk and folded one leg over the other.

"Yes, that's what I said."

"Why?"

"Because I'm booooored," Moriarty replied, "So don't be booooooring, or I'll have to find another way to entertain myself."

"Why don't you do that?" John asked.

"Why aren't you wearing that adorable little jumper of yours?" Moriarty deflected, "You know, the beige one you used to wear quite often. I like that jumper. Makes you look so cute and snuggly."

John gave the speaker a perplexed look, unsure of the direction that Moriarty was taking the conversation.

"You just stuffed it away," Moriarty said.

John's expression melted into a grimace. How had Moriarty known that? Had he been in the flat again? John didn't want to think about it. The possibility that Moriarty had been in his room, going through his things...

"How did you...?"

"I'm observant," Was all that Moriarty said in reply.

"Seriously," John said, "Why am I here? Don't you have more important things to do? You know, like kill people."

"You'd rather I killed someone?" Moriarty said.

"No! No, I didn't-"

"I could kill someone for you. Well, I wouldn't be the one killing them. Like I said, I don't like to get my hands were an exception, of course... But I'd be more than willing to have someone kill somebody for you."

"Don't."

"So indecisive, you are! Oh, this is fun. I'm glad you're here. Really."

"Bugger off."

"Again with the mouth..."

John didn't reply.

"Anyways," Moriarty sang, "Onto a more interesting subject!"

John covered his face in his hands and muttered something under his breath. He couldn't help but wonder how long he would have to endure this.

"How's Sherly?" Moriarty asked.

There was no reply.

"You too are a bit close," Moriarty said.

Still, John didn't answer.

"I'd venture to say you've shagged him, right?"

That certainly got John's attention.

"What? No. I haven't... We haven't- no."

"Ah. Right. Because he doesn't know how to, and you're scared."

"I'm not scared."

"Oh?"

"It's none of your bloody business," John spat. He rested a hand next to himself and impatiently drummed his fingers along the wood of the desk.

"Because the last time I checked," Moriarty said, "I'd fucked you, and ever since then you've been terrified to have sex with anyone. I noticed you didn't take home any of the men you'd been... _Interacting_ with at that posh little tavern you've made a habit of. Some of them were rather attractive, too. What is it? Are you scared it'll hurt, or are you more so scared you'll realize that you deserve to be pounded into like a-"

"Shut the hell up!" John screamed, "You've been following me! You sick son of a-"

"Mouth," Moriarty said, interrupting him.

"I don't bloody care! Go to hell, Jim Moriarty!"

"I can be even worse than hell," Moriarty growled, obviously annoyed by John's attitude. John had had enough. He jumped off of the desk he was sitting on and spun around. He picked the desk up, carried it over to the wall with the speaker in it, and then sit it down. He then climbed on top of it and proceeded to rip the speaker out of the wall- which wasn't very easy-throwing it onto the floor. After that, he jumped off of the desk and picked the speaker up, throwing it at the bullet-proof windows. He watched it smack the window and fall onto the ground, then he walked over and stomped on it in a fit of rage. He repeatedly smashed it until it was nothing but a pile of broken wood and cords, then he just stood there and glared down at it, breathing heavily. He clenched his hands into fists, and then unclenched them, closing his eyes.

He took a moment to calm down, and then he opened his eyes again. As calmly as possible, he walked over to his desk and sat down on it again, leaning back against the wall. He brought his legs up and hugged them against himself, burying his face in his knees. Then he just sat there and waited for whatever came next.

Approximately fifteen minutes passed by, and nothing happened. Nobody came to the room. John assumed that Moriarty was deliberately trying to build up the suspense. But then the twenty-minute mark came, and John could hear footsteps just outside of the room door. He jumped off of the desk, nearly fell as his leg gave out- _Dammit, his leg was acting up again_- and then caught himself on the desk and stood up straight. He cautiously inched towards the back of the room.

Then the door swung open, and a tall dark figure appeared.

A tall, dark, _familiar_ figure.

With curly hair.

Wearing a long coat, and a scarf.


	10. Finding John

It had been three hours, and Sherlock felt utterly useless. He didn't know what to do with himself. John had dropped his mobile,or his abductor had deliberately thrown it away-which was more likely- so there was no way to track him. Sherlock didn't know what else he could do. There were no clues to follow, no witnesses to question. All that he could do was nervously pace around the flat while waiting for his older brother to call with good news. Or bad news.

Hopefully not bad news.

Sherlock groaned, covering his face in his hands as he leaned against a wall. He slid his hands down his face and closed his eyes, combing his fingers through his hair. He was literally useless. He couldn't help John, and it was frustrating.

"I never should have let him run off on his own," Sherlock muttered to himself. He then held his hand up and looked at his watch, letting out another groan as he realized that it had only been fifteen minutes since Mycroft had last updated him. He needed to distract himself. His mind had betrayed him, and now all that he could think about were the infinite different situations that his friend could be forced to endure while he_ just stood around completely useless_. It was driving him mad.

Sherlock pushed off the wall and stood up, walking over to one of the windows. He gently lifted the curtain and looked down into the street, frowning. He then walked over to to kitchen doorway, spun around, and began pacing again. He folded his arms over his chest and briskly walked over to his bedroom door, then back to the kitchen doorway. After almost twenty minutes of repeating this pattern, he stopped, kicked the wall, and howled in frustration.

"I can't take-"

He was interrupted when his pocket started vibrating. Without hesitation, he retrieved his mobile and answered it without even looking to see who had called.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock answered, "Tell me that you've-"

"It's Lestrade," Replied the voice on the other side of the call. Sherlock fell silent.

"Don't worry," Lestrade said, "I'm calling on behalf of your brother. He's got his hands full at the moment, but he said you need to meet him in front of Father Karrin's."

"Are you referring to that old primary school they shut down years ago?"

"Yes. Get there as soon as possible."

Sherlock hung up without so much as a goodbye. He stuffed his mobile into his pocket, snatched his coat off of the sofa, and then spun around and ran downstairs. He jumped into the street and waved down an oncoming taxi, jumping into the back seat and directing the driver where to go. After bribing the driver, Sherlock was able to get to his destination within ten minutes.

As they pulled up to an old building, Sherlock haphazardly tossed a wad of money onto the front seat and jumped out of the vehicle. The taxi drove off without any questions. Sherlock slipped under the crime scene tape that had been put up around the perimeter, and then ran over to the dark Mercedes parked a few feet away and impatiently knocked on the window. Slowly, the glass slid down to reveal a rather perturbed man wearing a dark suit.

"Who the ell are you?" He snapped.

"Sherlock Holmes. Where is Mycroft Holmes?" Sherlock asked, looking around for his brother. Before the man sitting in the car had a chance to speak, the consulting detective caught a glimpse of the brown-haired fellow standing next to an ambulance parked a few yards away. Sherlock ran over to him and grabbed him by the arm, getting his attention.

Mycroft looked up at him and dropped the mobile he had been speaking to.

"Oh," He said, "You're here."

"Well?" Sherlock asked.

"Well what?"

"Where's John?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. He hung up his mobile and stuffed it into the inner pocket of his suit, then returned his attention to Sherlock.

"I've no idea why," Mycroft said, "But I've checked all video surveillance, and it all leads to here. My men are looking as we-"

Before he could finish talking, Sherlock started to walk off.

"Sherlock!"

The consulting detective spun around to face him, but kept walking towards the abandoned building.

"I'm going to help look!" He said, "John could be hurt!"

He turned back around and ran up the front steps connected to the building. He opened the double doors leading in and disappeared into the darkness. Mycroft stood there and simply stared at the front doors for a while, then he cursed inwardly and ran around the ambulance. On the other side of the large vehicle was a police squad car. Sitting in the front seat of it was a sleeping Detective Inspector.

Mycroft knocked on the window, startling Lestrade from his presumably peaceful slumber. Lestrade looked up at him, and he gestured for him to follow. Without waiting for a response Mycroft ran after his foolish little brother. He couldn't let him walk right into a potentially dangerous building without any back-up.

"This isn't even my bloody department," Lestrade muttered to himself as he snatched his handgun and got out of the car. He followed the older Holmes into the nearby building, gun raised. It was difficult to see anything. Lestrade squinted, struggling to adjust to the darkness. Then a blinding light shone at him, and he reflexively squeezed his eyes shut. He could still see the large white circle behind his eyelids.

"Gregory," Mycroft said, "Stop standing around and help me look for Sherlock."

Mycroft lowered the torch he had brought and Lestrade was able to open his eyes again. He glared over at the older Holmes brother, and then relaxed and let out a sigh. The man was just as irksome as his sibling, if not more so.

"Why are we searching for Sherlock?" Greg asked. Mycroft started to make his way down the long hall in front of them, holding the torch at his waist.

"He ran in here as soon I informed him that John could be here."

"Ah."

"I swear," Mycroft said, " Doctor Watson and him are..."

"Inseperable," Lestrade said.

"Too much so."

Lestrade clicked his tongue against the roof of the mouth, chuckling lightly. Mycroft looked back at him and frowned.

"Keep your gun ready," Mycroft snapped, "We still don't know what's lurking behind these walls."

Lestrade nodded, raising his gun.

"Y'know, Mike-"

"Mycroft."

"Right. Well, y'know Mycroft, it's not a bad thing to have friends."

Mycroft nudged a door open with his foot, jumping back as the thick slab of wood fell off of the hinges completely and clattered against the floor. He glanced back at Lestrade, then looked around to make sure that he hadn't gained any unwanted attention.

"Sentiment isn't an advantage," Mycroft said after coming to the conclusion that he and the DI were still out of harm's way. Lestrade furrowed his brow and studied the man curiously. Here he was, dressed in a suit that undoubtedly had to have cost him at least a thousand quid, rummaging around in a filthy, abandoned schoolhouse in search of his brother. If that wasn't sentiment, then Lestrade didn't know what was.

"Are you saying you don't love anyone?" Lestrade asked. Mycroft lit the room up with his torch and scanned the area. After finding that the room was void of any Sherlocks or Johns, he turned around and began to make his way down the rest of the hall.

"I'm saying I don't love anyone," Mycroft verified.

"Right." Lestrade nodded. "So what's this then?"

Mycroft looked at him over his shoulder.

"That's a bit vague," He said, "You're going to have to clarify what exactly you're referring to, Detective Inspector."

"Well, Mycroft, you're risking an expensive suit- _maybe even your life_- to save your little brother."

"Sherlock is an asset to this country."

"Bollocks."

"Might I remind you that you're also risking your life?"

"Well, yeah, Sherlock's important to me."

Mycroft turned into an intersecting hallway, letting out a dull sigh.

"What is it with you Holmes brothers?" Lestrade asked. Mycroft didn't answer. He was too distracted by all of the DI's insinuations. He was risking his life for Sherlock. But he hadn't really thought about it. When Sherlock ran off, his first instinct was to run after him and make sure that he was safe. Of course. He was his little brother.

"You ought to find someone to settle down with," Lestrade said out of the blue. Mycroft glanced back at him and raised an intrigued eyebrow.

"I've already had this conversation with Sherlock. Frankly, I'd rather not have to endure another version from you."

"Understandable. But I'm serious, Mycroft. You ought to find someone. I know you Holmeses act tough and all that, but if your brother can do it, I'm sure you could, too."

"Seriously. Shut up."

"C'mon. You can't say you've never put any thought into it."

"If you don't stop lecturing me, Detective Inspector, I might begin to think your trying to imply that you have aforementioned feelings towards me."

Lestrade chuckled.

"Not even," He replied.

"Then why's it matter to you so much?"

"Just take Sherlock for example," Lestrade said, "Sherlock's got John. And the first time I saw Sherlock kiss that man, I could tell how much he cared about him. My ex-wife and I never really had that. And I think you deserve-"

Mycroft spun around and stared at him with wide eyes.

"What did you just say?"

Lestrade held his hand over his eyes, once again blinded by the light Mycroft was aiming directly at his face. There was a loud gunshot, and then the light disappeared, and Mycroft's dark figure fell limp on the ground. His torch clattered against the floor and rolled a few feet away.

Without hesitation, Lestrade raised his gun and shot blindly into the distance. All he could see was spots, caused by Mycroft shining that damned light in his face. He missed his target, and the assailant shot at him. A bullet grazed his thigh, and he collapsed onto his knees. In a desperate attempt to defend himself and Mycroft,he shot in the direction of the shooter until he had used up all of his ammunition. Fortunately, he had managed to hit the man who had been shooting at him. The stranger let out a loud scream, there was a thud, and then a low gurgling noise. After merely ten seconds, the man fell silent.

Lestrade shoved his gun into it's holster and quickly stood up, grasping at his bloodied leg. He winced, collapsed again, and then mustered all of his strength to stand up. He stumbled over to Mycroft, cursing obnoxiously.

"Dammit. Bloody- Oh God. Mycroft. Mycroft!"

He snatched Mycroft's torch and kneeled down next to him. Shining the light on Mycroft revealed that he had been shot in the arm.

"Bugger. You alright?"

Mycroft groaned, grasping at his bloodied arm. Lestrade quickly went to work. He fumbled with his belt, and then tore it off and wrapped it around Mycroft's bicep, just above the bullet wound. He then tightened the belt and buckled it. Mycroft's eyes grew wide, and he visibly clenched his jaw shut. Lestrade just told him to suck it up and instructed him to stand. Carefully, Mycroft did as he was told, slumping against the wall as soon as he made it onto his feet.

Lestrade wrapped an arm around him.

"We've got to get you out of here," He said.

"I can't!" Mycroft yelled, "Sherlock-"

"You're bleeding!" Lestrade yelled, "Just let your men handle it. For God's sake, Mycroft, you're just as stubborn as-"

"Don't say it," Mycroft interrupted.

"Just as stubborn as Sherlock," Lestrade said.

He led a very reluctant Mycroft out of the building, practically carrying him. As soon as they were noticed, several of Mycroft's men ran over to them and offered help. Two men took Mycroft from Lestrade and helped him over to the ambulance. A man offered to help Lestrade, but the DI just waved him off.

"I'm fine!" Yelled a familiar voice. Lestrade looked back towards the building to find Sherlock and John being escorted out of the front doors by a pair of rather large, suited men. John was covered in blood. His hands were drenched in crimson, and his shirt looked as if a small child had used red finger paint on it. Sherlock was holding one of his arms and limping. Both men looked dreadfully disheveled, and exhausted.

"Sherlock..." Lestrade whispered. He watched as one of the suited men grabbed for Sherlock. Sherlock rewarded him with a forceful knee to the groin, and he collapsed onto his knees. The group stopped walking entirely, and the other suited man began making his way towards Sherlock. John held an arm in front of him and gave him a warning look. The man looked down at John, then relaxed and took a step back.

"I said I can handle myself," Sherlock said to the man he had assaulted. He then continued to walk. John followed. The two men behind them talked something over, and then pursued them at a distance.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled. The consulting detective jerked his attention over to him, and he waved his hand in the air. Just as he opened his mouth to say something, the ambulance siren went off behind him. Sherlock and John both jerked their attention towards the vehicle, and even Lestrade turned to look at it. When the DI turned around, Sherlock had approached him.

"Where is Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, his eyes still glued to the ambulance. John walked up to them and tapped Sherlock on the shoulder.

"Hey," The shorter man replied, "You can talk later. You've got to let someone look at your arm."

A tall, thin paramedic jogged over to Lestrade and put a hand on his shoulder. Lestrade looked over at him with an intrigued expression.

"Mr. Holmes is asking for you."

Lestrade nodded, and then ran off with the paramedic. Sherlock pursued.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock shouted.

"Mycroft was shot," Lestrade yelled back at him, "But he'll be okay! We'll meet you at St. Bart's!"

Sherlock stopped running and stood there, watching as the paramedic opened the back doors of the ambulance. Lestrade climbed inside and sat down next to the wounded man lying on the gurney. Was that Mycroft?

Sherlock took a step forward and strained to evaluate his older brother's condition. The paramedic closed the door to the vehicle, ran around, got into the front, and then drove off.

"Sherlock," Said John, "Can we please go? I've got a dreadful headache, and you're bleeding. For Christ's sake, Sherlock, you need to see a doctor!"

"You _are_ a doctor," Sherlock replied, "I'll be fine. Besides, someone will be able to look after me when we get to the hospital."

Sherlock started walking off, and John grabbed his good arm. He yanked Sherlock back and forced him to look at him, then gave him a very serious expression.

"There's another ambulance here for a reason," He said, "Now get your arse in it and let the paramedic fix you up. Now."

Sherlock stared down at him defiantly, and then let out a sigh and nodded.

...

It was midnight by the time that they arrived at the hospital. Sherlock had to get an X-Ray of his arm, and then he went into surgery. Surgery took almost an hour. Then his arm was put into a cast, and he was rolled into his own hospital room. He woke up fifteen minutes later to discover that his arm was wrapped in pink, and his trousers were gone. He looked over at the small sofa against the far wall, squinting at John's blurry figure. The anesthesia still hadn't worn off completely. He could just barely make out the short, stout man sitting before him.

"John," he croaked.

"Hm?"

John looked up at him and raised his brow. Sherlock sat up and swung his legs over the edge of his bed. He ripped his IV out of his arm and stood up, wincing as his bare feet met with the cold tile floor. A wave of dizziness swept over him, and he collapsed onto his knees, falling forward. He caught himself with his good arm, but his gown slipped forward, revealing his entire bare back. John quickly ran over to him.

"Oh my- Sherlock!"

Sherlock stood up and fussed over making sure that his privates were covered, hugging the gown against himself. He blushed as soon as he looked up to find his flat mate attempting to stifle a giggle.

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock snapped.

"I didn't say anything," John teased.

"I-um... Nevermind."

"You need to be careful."

"It wasn't my fault," Sherlock retorted, "The floor's a bit slick."

John looked down at the floor, then back at Sherlock, raising an eyebrow.

"For your sake, I'll just agree and pretend that I believe you."

"John, if you tell me, then what's the point?"

"It was a joke, Sher- oh, forget it."

The two men stood there and just stared at each other for a while, both of them unsure of how to carry on the conversation. It was one of those moments where some small-talk would suffice, but neither of them were really any good with small-talk. Both men lacked the social skill.

"You do have a nice butt," John said. He looked up at Sherlock and grinned. Sherlock just gave him this expression, which sort of made him look constipated. He didn't know how to respond to such a claim. John had never openly flirted with him before.

"Sherlock? You alright?"

John furrowed his brow. Sherlock continued to just stare at him with that peculiar look, which was a bit unnerving.

"Sherlock? Not this again. Stop it."

Sherlock blinked rapidly, just staring at him. He tried to poke the taller man in an attempt to get him to snap out of his trance, but it didn't seem to work.

"Sherlock, stop. You're beginning to creep me out. Just a bit. C'mon now."

Sherlock cleared his throat and diverted his gaze elsewhere.

"You've seen my butt," he said. John chuckled. He stopped abruptly as soon as Sherlock looked down at him.

"Yes," he said, "Yes, I've seen your butt."

Sherlock nodded, glancing over at the clock. John bit his lip, trying not to laugh. He'd never seen Sherlock so embarrassed before.

"And we've snogged in the kitchen," John pointed out.

"Hardly the point," Sherlock said.

"We've also come out as a couple," John said. Sherlock looked down at him and furrowed his brow.

"We have?"

"Christmas, remember?"

"I kissed you in front of the landlady and Lestrade," Sherlock said, "You can hardly consider it as coming out as a couple. Besides, I thought you said we weren't a couple?"

"Well, we're obviously in a relationship, right?"

"I've not the faintest clue, John."

The doctor looked up at him and smiled, shoving his hands into his pockets. He grunted, and then dropped his head and smiled to himself as he rolled on the heels of his feet. He then looked up at Sherlock again and licked his lips. He scratched his temple and squinted, mulling something over in his head.

"I wouldn't mind," He said.

Sherlock just stared at him with a blank expression.

"You know," John said with a gesture of his hand, "I wouldn't mind being in a relationship. With you. I mean, if you wanted to, of course. If you're... If you're really all that interested..."

"Of course I'm- _I snogged you in the bloody kitchen_!"

"Alright," John held his hands up defensively, "I'm just saying."

"Yes. So we're...?"

"Yeah."

"Intriguing..."

Sherlock folded his arms over his chest and nodded to himself.

"What's intriguing?" John asked.

"Just that, well... That you choose _now_ to discuss this."

"Yeah. Well it just sort of came up."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, studying him. John adopted a regretful look and shoved his hands back into his pockets. Sherlock couldn't help but notice how fidgety he was.

"What is it, John?"

"Lestrade may have told Mycroft."

"What?"

"Lestrade told My-"

"I heard what you said," Sherlock replied,"But what do you mean?"

"Lestrade told Mycroft about... Us. On Christmas."

A look of sudden realization spread across Sherlock's face, and then a look of pure terror. John would have laughed at his reaction, but he felt the exact same way. After all, having the British government knowing that he was having relations with his brother... It was a bit unnerving. Especially when the British government had already spoken to him about it, and had threatened to make him disappear if he did anything to hurt the aforementioned brother. John would never do anything to hurt Sherlock, of course, but it was still a bit unsettling to know that Mycroft would probably be keeping an even closer eye on them now.

He already had 24/7 surveillance on the flat.

"And Mycroft's managed to deduce from it that we're in a serious relationship. And he said that he'd do much worse than kill me if I ever tried to hurt you, and all of that cliche, protective brother material." John added.

"I'm gonna kill him," Sherlock said.

He started towards the door, but John stopped him.

"Sherlock-"

Sherlock spun around and scowled at him.

"He has no right, John! What I do with my personal life is _my_ business! I'm sick of him thinking that he can-"

"He's just trying to protect you," Said John.

"Well I don't need protecting. I can handle myself."

"He worries."

"No, John. He just wants to make sure that I stay in line because any misbehavior on my part could end up ruining his _campaign_. After all, if a grown man can't keep his younger brother under control, whose to say he can control an_ entire british government_!"

"Sherlock, calm down. You're blowing this way out of proportion."

"What would you know? You haven't had to live with him for as long as I have. Trust me, John. Mycoft's a manipulative, back-stabbing-"

"Sherlock, he risked his bloody life for you!"

Sherlock fell silent, squinting at him.

"How so?"

"Y'know," John said, "Mycroft ran into that building after you because he thought you were in trouble. Lestrade said he went in to make sure you didn't end up shot. And because of that, Sherlock, your brother ended up being the one who got shot. I think it's fair to say Mycroft took a bullet for you."

"I didn't ask him to."

John crossed his arms over his chest and rolled his eyes, letting out a distressed sigh.

"Is...Is Mycroft alright?" Sherlock asked.

John looked up at the seemingly unconcerned man and nodded. Sherlock was trying to appear indifferent, but John could tell otherwise. After all, Sherlock Holmes wasn't as heartless as he'd like people to think. He really did care about his brother, whether he would admit it or not.

"Mycroft is fine," John said, noting the look of relief on Sherlock's face. He took Sherlock by his hand and started to lead him towards the door, "He's actually been waiting for you to wake up."

Sherlock pulled away from John's grasp, and John looked back at him.

"I'd rather put my clothes on before we leave the room," Sherlock said. John nodded, retrieving a large bag off of the sofa. He handed it to Sherlock, and then watched as he walked into the nearby wash room, closing the door. The consulting detective reappeared a few minutes later, dressed in a pair of dark trousers and a wrinkled dress shirt.

"Right," he said, "Much better."

He then took John's hand, smiled down at him, and led him out of the room.

"So," he said, "Which direction?"

They walked down the hall and stopped where another hall intersected. Sherlock looked both ways, then back at John, who gestured for him to go right. Sherlock made a right turn and began walking down the long hallway. John stopped him about halfway down, in front of a large pair of steel metal doors. John poked a button on the wall, and the metal doors spread open. Both men stepped into the lift, and John pressed a small button that was labeled with the number 2.

"What exactly happened?" Sherlock asked as the doors to the lift slid shut. He felt the sudden shift in gravity as they began to travel upwards, and reflexively grabbed the railing next to him.

"Greg says he ran in after you, and Mycroft turned around to ask him about something, then some bloke just came out of nowhere and started shooting."

"Oh? Has he given us any leads?"

"No. Greg shot him down. He died on the premises."

"Oh. Well, were they able to find out _anything_?"

"Moriarty was talking to me through the announcement speaker. When I told Mycroft that, he figured that Moriarty would have had to have been in the building. No signs of him, though."

"Right, but did Mycroft's men actually _help_, or did they just sit around making useless observations all night?"

"They just sat around making useless observations," John replied. He looked up at Sherlock and smiled. Both men laughed. The lift doors opened, and they both stepped out. They made their way to Mycroft's hospital room, and John let go of Sherlock's hand to open the door. John walked into the room and stepped aside as Sherlock came in, then walked over and sat down next to Lestrade on the small sofa against the wall opposite of Mycroft's bed.

Sherlock and Mycroft just stared at each other. John leaned sideways and whispered something to Greg.

"How is he?" He asked.

"He's fine," Greg whispered, "A bit grumpy, but that's just him, you know?"

John nodded.

"Well," Mycroft finally spoke up.

"You look ridiculous," Sherlock replied, referencing the white hospital gown that his brother was wearing. Mycroft smiled sourly.

"I'm not the one with a hot pink cast on my arm," He replied.

Sherlock looked down at the pink cast on his arm, then back up at Mycroft. He didn't have a valid argument.

"I've no idea why it's that colour," Sherlock to him, it was John's doing. John had told the nurse that Sherlock's favourite colour was pink, just to mess with him.

"Well, I hear it was a courtesy of the brilliant Doctor Watson."

Sherlock squinted, studying his brother for a moment. He then looked back at John.

"Is that true?"

"I may have told the nurse you like pink," John replied.

"Why would you do that?" Sherlock asked.

"It's amusing."

Greg nodded in agreement, and Sherlock turned his attention back to Mycroft.

"What's it from again?" Mycroft asked, "You fell?"

"The floor crumbled underneath me," Sherlock replied.


	11. Please Don't Hurt Me

John Watson was undeniably one of the strongest men that Sherlock knew. Not just physically, but mentally. After all, he was an Afghanistan veteran. He had survived the sight of men being shot down before his eyes. He had survived losing patients, and watching friends die right in front of him. He had even survived getting shot. And yet, he managed to make it out alive and remain relatively sane. He had war flashbacks every now and then, but they weren't too crippling. And the psychosomatic limp in his step had disappeared shortly after he met Sherlock.

He managed to hide his pain rather well.

Even after he had been raped by Moriarty, he didn't crumble into a billion pieces and stop functioning. He continued to live a relatively normal life. He worked for a living, and when he wasn't working, he'd be helping Sherlock with a case. Most of the time, he could control his emotions. He'd keep himself occupied in order to keep himself distracted, and it seemed to work. He'd have occasional nightmares, and there were times when something would trigger a flashback, but -other than that- he could contain himself for the most part.

He put on a happy facade and tried his best to hide the fact that he was a time bomb just waiting to explode. But then the end of the year came, and John's timer finally hit the last seconds of its count down.

It was actually New Year's Eve. Sherlock was home alone, curled into the fetal position on a chair as he peered over his knees at the television in front of him. He was watching the countdown to the New Year, waiting for John to get home from work so that they could go over some details on the current case. His eyes were glued to the television screen as a middle-aged woman announced how many minutes were left before the new year started in nauseatingly cheerful tone. Then he heard a door slam downstairs, accompanied by the sound of something breaking several seconds later.

John started cursing loud enough for Sherlock to hear, and then there was another disturbing noise as something crashed onto the ground and shattered. Sherlock furrowed his brow and looked over at the stairway, then he uncurled himself and stood up, cautiously making his way down the stairs. He walked into the kitchen to find his flat mate literally throwing things off of the counters.

"_Fucking piece of_-!"

John ripped the toaster cord out of the wall and threw the toaster into the wall a few feet away from Sherlock. Sherlock flinched away and looked down at the small appliance, then he looked up at John and stared incredulously at him. John didn't seem to notice that he had appeared in the doorway, he was too distracted by his anger.

"What are you-" Sherlock started to ask him what he was doing, but he was interrupted when John grabbed a plate and threw it onto the ground. The glass shattered, and the tiny little pieces flew about the room as John grabbed another plate.

"John!"

The doctor threw the other plate into a wall, and then he spun around and flipped over the kitchen table. Everything on the table fell onto the ground- most of it being Sherlock's scientific instruments. A microscope fell and skidded across the floor. A large jar of some unidentified liquid spilled all over the place. An old beaker smacked against the ground and broke into three pieces. Several different books just hit the floor with a thud, soaking in whatever it was that had spilled everywhere.

"_What are you doing_?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

John looked up at him for a fleeting second, then he grabbed another plate and threw it across the room. The plate he threw shattered against the ground. He then raised his leg and kicked the wall. His foot actually went _through_ the wall, and he pulled the appendage back to reveal the new, large hole that it had created. Sherlock quickly ran over to him and grabbed him.

"What the _hell_ are you doing? Mrs. Hudson's going to have your head!"

"Let go of me!" John snapped. He jerked out of Sherlock's grasp and shoved him away. Then he kicked a microscope on the ground. The small piece of equipment slid across the room, and Sherlock quickly ran over to retrieve it.

"Stop!" Sherlock shouted, "You're breaking my-"

"Piss off!" John yelled as he used his arm to shove everything on the nearby counter onto the floor. Several plates and mugs shattered against the ground, the crashing only muffled by the sound of silverware clattering against the floor.

"_What the hell are you doing_!?" Sherlock shouted.

"I'm blowing off some damn steam!"

"Well _stop_!"

It had finally happened. It was exactly four minutes away from midnight, and John had exploded. He had finally just completely lost control. He was throwing things around, destroying the wall...he didn't care what kind of destruction he caused. He couldn't keep the emotions pent up anymore. He needed to let it all out; needed to let out all of the sadness and anger that he had kept bottled up for so long. If that meant destroying the flat and anyone nearby who tried to interfere, then so be it.

"_Leave me alone!_" John yelled. He ran into the living area and kicked over the coffee table. Sherlock ran after him and firmly told him to stop, but he ignored him. He used all of his strength to throw Sherlock's chair sideways, and then he grabbed Sherlock's computer. Sherlock quickly plucked the device from his hands before he had the chance to damage it. John stopped for a moment and stared at him as if he had betrayed him. Sherlock- caught off guard by the look in John's eyes- took a cautious step back.

"You need to calm down," Sherlock said in the calmest voice he could muster.

"Or _what_?" John asked. He took a large step towards Sherlock and glared up at him, silently daring him to try to stop him.

"Please don't make me-"

"Make you- _what_?" John interrupted, "Make you _hurt me_? You want to hurt me, Sherlock?"

"That's not-"

"I'm sick of your bloody brother following me around everywhere I go!" John yelled.

"It's for your own safe-"

"I don't want to only feel safe as long as a bleeding security guard is following me around!"

Sherlock reached out towards John, but John flinched away.

"_Don't touch me_," He hissed.

"John, I'm just trying to help you!"

Sherlock was beginning to lose his patience.

"You can't help me!" John exclaimed, " You _could have.._. If you just would have done _what you're supposed to_. If you never would have _egged him on_..."

Sherlock dropped his hand back to his side and furrowed his brow.

"What are you getting at, John?"

John looked up at him and scowled, as if offended by the fact that Sherlock didn't understand what he was trying to tell him.

"It's _your_ bloody fault he raped me!" John shouted.

Sherlock flinched at that. He just stared at his friend, and then he dropped his gaze and took a step back. He was obviously wounded, but John didn't care.

John took another step towards him and stood upright, leaning forward until his face was nearly inches away from Sherlock's. His jaw was locked, his gaze intense. Sherlock just stood there. He stared down at his flat mate and locked gazes with him. He could see John's hand curl into a fist out of the corner of his eye, but didn't think that his friend would actually hurt him.

Unfortunately, he was wrong.

John wasn't in his right mind. He was an army vet who had been shot, a doctor who had once had to lose his best friend, and a man who had been victimized by another. His mind was cluttered with violent thoughts. He wasn't thinking clearly. He just wanted to be angry. He wanted to throw things around, and scream as loud as he could, and throw blame around, and... and_ hurt someone_.

Suddenly, he hit Sherlock's computer out of his hand. Sherlock flinched away as the computer smacked on the hardwood floor. Then John raised his fist and swung at him. Fortunately, Sherlock was a fast thinker. He ducked, grabbed John's wrist, and then he stepped around the shorter man and twisted his arm behind his back. He pushed John into the nearby wall and held him in place. John tried to fight against him, so he pushed his body directly against him in order to pin him flat against the wall.

Something triggered, and John's attitude changed completely. Instead of angry, violent John, Sherlock found himself dealing with a frantic, suddenly terrified John.

All that the doctor could think of was Moriarty, on top of him, holding his arm twisted into a painful position on his back. He could hear the shallow grunts, feel the warmth of an uninvited body.

"_Get off of me_!" John gasped, "Sherlock! _Get off_!"

"Are you going to stop acting like an imbecile?"

John tried to push him off, but Sherlock tightened his grip on his arm and stood firm. The considerably shorter man continued to struggle against him. He writhed against the wall, and when that didn't work, he tried to throw his head back into Sherlock's face. That didn't work, either.

"Seriously," Sherlock said, "Behave yourself."

The consulting detective seriously had no idea the impact that those words had.

_Be a good boy, Johnny..._

John stopped fighting completely. Sherlock felt him shudder, and then he let out a choked sob.

"_Please_," He begged, _"Please_ don't hurt me..."

He had never heard the man sound so desperate before. And he realized that John was actually talking to _him_. He was begging _him_ not to hurt him. He wasn't pleading some hallucination to leave him alone, or desperately trying to pry away an invisible man in his sleep. He actually thought that _Sherlock_ was going to hurt him.

The consulting detective let go of him and jumped away. John fell onto his knees and dropped onto all fours, gasping for air. He squeezed his eyes shut and grasped at his chest, wheezing. When he opened his eyes again, the room was spinning around him. He tried to stand up, but the world tilted sideways, and he was sent into the wall. He slid down onto the floor, and Sherlock knelt down beside him. His friend started talking to him- trying to calm him down, apologizing-but he couldn't make out what he was saying. Everything suddenly felt so distant, and it all felt so foggy. Sherlock's words were muffled by an obnoxious ringing in his ears.

He could taste the coppery blood dripping out of his nose and rolling down his lips. He could smell it. He could feel the thick, red liquid dripping off of his chin, even though it wasn't actually there.

"I'm _sorry_," Sherlock said, "I'm _sorry_. I'm _so sorry, John_. I didn't mean to."

And Sherlock just kept repeating himself, apologizing over and over again. He was afraid that John would be mad at him; hate him for overpowering him and making him feel so helpless like that.

John's breathing only got worse. He sat back against the wall and tipped his head back, squeezing his eyes shut. He grabbed his side and kept taking short, sharp breaths as his throat constricted. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't focus. Images of Moriarty on top of him, using him, defiling him... He couldn't make them go away.

"John, please!" Sherlock begged, "I don't know what to do. What am I supposed to do?"

"I can't-" John choked.

"Calm down, John."

"Sherlock, I-"

"You're gonna start hyperventilating if you don't calm down!"

John started wheezing obnoxiously. Sherlock jumped up and pulled his mobile out of his pocket. Without thinking, he called the only person he thought might be able to help him. He quickly dialed Lestrade, and then he waited for him to answer.

"I don't know what to do," Sherlock franticly yelled as soon as he heard someone pick up the line, "John's having a panic attack, and I _don't know what to do_!"

There was a short pause.

"What?"

"Panic attack. _C'mon_, Lestrade. I don't know what to do! I've never dealt with this type of thing before!"

"A panic attack?"

"Yes, dammit!"

"Okay," Lestrade calmly replied, "First of all, you need to calm down, Sherlock. It's important that you don't upset him any more than he already is. Okay?"

Sherlock glanced down at his flat mate and nodded. John's breathing was only getting more erratic.

"Where is he?" Lestrade asked.

"In the living room," Sherlock said, "On the ground."

"Pick him up and take him over to a chair," Lestrade said.

Sherlock ran over to John and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him onto his feet. He dragged the shorter man over to a chair, and then asked the DI what he should do next. Lestrade promptly told him to plant John's feet firmly on the ground and make him lean forward, head between his knees. Sherlock did as he was told.

"Make sure he's taking deep, even breaths. Tell him to take deep breaths, Sherlock."

"John," Sherlock whispered, "I need you to control your breathing. Just take deep breaths...There. Yes, that's great."

John did as he was told. He grabbed his knees and took in a shaky breath, then slowly let it out. He did it again, but then he started to lose control and began gasping for air again. Sherlock put a comforting hand on his back and reassured him that he was okay. It was going to be okay.

"Tell him to focus on you," Lestrade said, "Have him focus on nothing but your voice, and keep talking to him."

"Focus on me, John. Just listen to my voice, okay? It's me, Sherlock. I'm right here, okay?"

Finally, John managed to gain control. His breathing steadied, and he slowly sat up. He opened his eyes and exhaled in the form of a distressed sigh, then he continued to take deep, steady breaths. Sherlock sat on his knees in front of him and watched him very carefully, studying his every move. He didn't say anything, just sat there and watched. Then- after making absolutely sure that his flat mate was better- Sherlock stood up and thanked his DI for the help that he had provided.

"How did you know to do that?" Sherlock asked.

"I've dealt with my share of trauma victims," Lestrade replied, "Post Traumatic Stress Disorder isn't an uncommon subject matter with cops. We have to know how to deal with these types of things just in case we end up with a rape victim or an army vet going nuts after a loud noise triggers something. Hey, Sherlock?"

The consulting detective glanced over at John to make sure he was still okay.

"Yes?"

"John's fine now, right?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Say, John doesn't seem the panicky type. What exactly-"

"I should get back to him, Lestrade. Thanks for your help. I'm glad you aren't as useless as I had thought."

Sherlock hung up without warning and stuffed his mobile back into the front pocket of his trousers. He looked around and surveyed the destruction that John had caused, then turned his attention back to the man sitting in the chair a few feet away. He was breathing normally, but he was trembling. His lip was quivering, and his hands were shaking hideously.

"Sherlock..." John croaked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Sherlock walked over to him and knelt down in front of him.

"It's fine," He said, "You're fine."

John sat upright and grabbed him by his shoulder, staring straight into his eyes. He composed himself, and then gave Sherlock a very serious expression. He opened his mouth to say something, but before he had the chance, he choked out a sob and started crying. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and clung to him, crying into his shirt.

"I'm sorry," John muttered into the fabric, "I'm so sorry I said that."

Sherlock brought his good arm up and held John close, shaking his head.

"It's fine," He said, "I deserved it."

"No," John said, "I didn't mean it. You know that, right?"

Sherlock pulled away from him. He brought John's head up so that he could see his face, and furrowed his brow. John swallowed hard. Sherlock used his thumb to wipe away the tears staining his cheek, and then gave him a sad smile and leaned forward to kiss him.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," He whispered. John involuntarily smiled. He kissed the taller man back, and then hugged him again. He stuck to him like Velcro, wrapping his arms all the way around him and grasping at the back of his shirt like a child desperately clinging to its mother. Sherlock brought his good arm up and wrapped it around John's shoulder, burying his face in his friend's silvery blonde hair.

"Do you... do you want to..."

"No," John replied.

"Are you sure? Because I'll listen."

"I'm sure."

"Alright."

"Good."

"Good."

There was a short pause, and then Sherlock spoke up again.

"Mycroft called in with new information on the case," Sherlock said, "You should get some sleep. I'll clean up, and we can discuss everything tomorrow."

John didn't reply.

"Does that sound good?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded, but made no effort to let go of him. Sherlock tried to pry him off, but he had a firm grasp on him, and he didn't really want to force the doctor off.

"John, you..."

"I need you," John said. Sherlock smiled to himself, letting out a sigh as he ruffled the shorter man's hair with his hand.

"Alright. I'm here."


End file.
